


Universes Collide

by azcendio



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate universes... AU, F/M, Soulmates AU, a compilation of angsty "what ifs", as AU as AU can get really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 09:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13972029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azcendio/pseuds/azcendio
Summary: What are we to each other, my love, but a quiet moment in the midst of chaos.  What would we be, if our hands met in another world, at any other time than this quiet moment.  What would we be?“We’re not starcrossed.  We’re…” Draco murmured, his eyes distant in thought.  His mind seemed to float off into space, reaching for reason, a rationale she too searched for.  For a moment, his eyes glimmered with the light of a far-off star being born.  Draco had come to a realization, a conclusion about their fate in life.His hand wrapped around Hermione’s, lifting them to the sky as an offering.  Slowly, with an affection that ignited every nerve in her body, his fingers entwined with hers.“We’re universes, colliding.  Consuming.  Destroying.  Constantly destroying.  But it never stops - this need to touch and be near you, always.  Even if it means our mutual destruction.  And I know that makes me selfish, but I don’t care.  I don’t want to care.”





	1. If We Could Transcend

**Author's Note:**

> this is going to be kind of a roller coaster, guys. someone requested I post these outside of my blog, for easier perusal so here it is! Updates come as the thoughts cross my mind, as this is mostly a collection of moments. There is a beginning and there is a finite end, but everything in between... Well. Enjoy.

It all felt wrong.  The grass beneath her feet cracked like broken glass.  The air was stifling, thick with the echoes of screams and disbelief.  The stands to her left were crowded with the ghosts of witnesses. The maze to her right was a scar on the grounds, disgusting and violent.  The night promised shadows in everyone’s dreams. Hermione grew ill with each step she took, her legs dragging with exhaustion. Yet, Luna Lovegood held herself like moonlight, glowing brighter in the darkest hour.

It aggravated Hermione to no end, especially since she had no inclination to stand on a grave with a girl she barely knew.

“Just to clarify, we’ve come to the maze because?”  Hermione drawled, doubting Lovegood’s sanity even more than she usually did.  Her skepticism was not at all eased by the fact that Luna Lovegood had introduced herself to Hermione just outside of the Divination classroom.  When she promptly informed Hermione that she “had a uniquely divine connection to the cosmos.”

Luna took pause just outside the central entrance to the maze, and for a moment Hermione was afraid she’d lose the mental case to the bushes.  The girl turned and smiled encouragingly at Hermione before swiftly plopping down on the ground.

“This is where you had a vision, isn’t it?”

Immediately, Hermione’s walls flew up higher than they already were.  She crossed her arms. “What vision?” She shot back defensively.

Luna’s smile only widened at the hostility, knowing its true purpose.  “Ginny told me, asked if I could possibly help and of course I’d be happy to.”

“And how exactly do you propose to do that?”  Hermione muttered, suspicious and already plotting a good, solid lecture for Ginny when she next saw her.  

“We’re going to lie down-”

“Where Cedric Diggory’s corpse lay?”  She sputtered in disbelief, her feet retreating.  Looney Lovegood was a just nickname for this girl.

Luna frowned, confused by Hermione’s defensiveness.  “Didn’t you tell Ginny that-”

“I don’t care what I told Ginny!  I told her, not you, and-”

“It’ll help you tap into the message the cosmos is trying to send,” Luna went on, as if Hermione wasn’t about to explode.

“The cosmos?”  More doubt, skepticism.  Yet, Hermione wasn’t leaving.  She lingered in curiosity.

“Yes,” so certain, as though what Luna was saying wasn’t completely deranged.  “It would appear you are having a disconnect with your third eye. Returning to the place of your vision will help you reconnect.  It helps that it was outside, beneath the stars. Your bond is stronger here.”

Hermione shuffled her feet.  Blinked, waiting for the dream, the nightmare to end.  “My third… Are you preaching divinations to me?”

Luna shrugged casually, as though she weren’t sitting on a crime scene in the dead of night - past curfew.  “It’s the closest thing to what you’re experiencing.”

She groaned, and seemed to make a decision that turned her feet towards the castle.  “Luna, I’m exhausted. It’s been a terrible week, and this is absolutely ridiculous and crude.  I am not going to lie here and relive what happened just to tickle your phoney divination bone.”

As Hermione began to take her leave, she heard the crinkle of grass as Luna stood up.  “Is it really?” She called boldly, more aggressively than Hermione expected. “How else would you explain your frequent moments of deja vu?  Of feeling neither here nor there? Didn’t Harry have visions, too? And didn’t they turn out to be real, to be warning of You-Know-Who’s return?  Maybe you should put more value into what you see, and less in what you think you know.”

“That was different,” Hermione argued against her own better judgment.  She backtracked, returning to where Luna was, and there was an itch in the back of her head, a feeling that she’d played into Lovegood’s hands.  It was too late. She had to prove her stubborn point. “It wasn’t even exactly deja vu. It was more… more like looking into a funhouse mirror.”

Again, against her better judgment, Hermione glanced back at the stands, at the spot she’d stood when the world momentarily collapsed on itself.  “Everything was distorted,” she murmured, and there she was again. Standing on the bleachers, her eyes locked onto Harry, onto his hand clutching desperately at Cedric’s chest as though to push a heartbeat back into it, into himself.

_ “He’s dead! He’s dead!  Diggory is dead!” _

_ All about her was commotion, people’s feet running without real knowledge of what was going on.  Scattering for the sake of scattering, fuel to the panic at seeing two boys appear, unmoving, crumpled corpses on the ground.  All the while, Hermione stood on tiptoes, trying her damndest to see, to see if it was Harry there beside Cedric. If the two “he’s dead” meant there were two dead, two friends dead.  Her heart leapt into her throat, wanting desperately to see, too. She grabbed hold of a stunned observer in front of her and pushed herself up, and spotted the growing crowd in front of the maze.   _

_ Harry still lay on the ground, still clutched at Cedric, but his head was moving.  His lips spoke words she couldn’t hear, but it was enough. He was alive. But Cedric?  Over the screaming was the silence where his voice should have been. _

_ He was dead.  He was dead. Cedric Diggory was dead. _

_ Nausea spun Hermione’s head into oblivion. _

_ “He’s back!  He’s back! Voldemort is back!” _

_ Confusion.  All about her, the commotion began again, as if on repeat.  She blinked and Cedric’s body was gone. Harry was standing, bleeding from his arm, howling like a deranged soldier in the middle of a battlefield only he could see.  Fear swallowed the crowd whole, but they screamed at the sound of You-Know-Who’s name, not at a boy’s corpse on the ground. Frantically, she scanned the grounds for Cedric and saw him standing, stunned, beside Fleur and Viktor, alive.  So alive, but deathly pale at the name that flew from Harry’s lips. _

_ Confusion, so much confusion.  People pressed against her, pushing to get to the nearest exist, nearly toppling her over as she refused to move.  She was stunned into place, petrified by witnessing a scene twice; a twisted game of “I Spy” where something was just not right. _

_ Surprisingly, Hermione did not fall over under the current of frantic bodies.  Someone was holding her steady; warm, strong, devout hands grabbed her arms and steadied her flimsy frame. _

_ “This can’t be happening,” she heard a shaky voice whisper behind her, quietly, frail with fear, familiar to her ears.  But, it couldn’t be. _

_ Hermione forced her head to turn away from Harry, and saw Draco Malfoy staring down at her with so much fright there was no possible room for hatred.  But there should’ve been. And he shouldn’t have been holding her, or anywhere near her. And she shouldn’t have wanted to lean into his touch, but she did.  And his fear lessened only slightly, to leave room for the spark of love that flitted across his eyes. _

_ “This isn’t happening,” she breathed, more afraid of Malfoy then than she’d ever been before.  More afraid of Malfoy than she was of the Dark Lord. _

_ Fear fueled her flee, nausea turned her over. _

_ Suddenly, she was staring into the face of Neville Longbottom, his hands keeping her from falling over.  Again, she heard the cries for Cedric, the call of a father for a son who was gone. No shouts over Voldemort’s return, no utterance of his name beside that from Hermione’s mind. _

_ “Are you okay, Hermione?”  Neville asked over the roar of chaos.  He let go of her, but Hermione could still feel the imprint of Malfoy’s hands on her flesh.  Wildly, her eyes searched for the cause of her added distress.  _

_ Draco Malfoy stood at the opposite end of the stands, just as shell-shocked as she, his eyes finding hers over the sea of people.  There was no softness in him when he saw her, only fear. So much fear. _

“Maybe relaxing will help,” Luna’s voice cut in, a beam through the haze.  Hermione blinked and she was back in the present, her feet on the grass Cedric’s body had laid on only days ago.  “Just lie down. I’ll be right next to you, and we’ll see if a sign reaches you through the stars, as they did that night.”

Sufficiently rattled, and worn out, Hermione sighed.  “Fine,” she grumbled in partial submission as she sat on the ground, eased her head down upon the sharp blades of grass.

Hermione glared at the sky, daring the constellations she didn’t see to prove Luna right.  She waited impatiently for any possible revelation. She waited, and stared. Waited, and stared.  Pondered, and stared. Pondered, and watched. Gradually her gaze widened, and the sound of her breathing became the soundtrack to the stars, the satellites, and the planets painted above her head.  The longer Hermione’s eyes tuned to the darkness of the night sky, the lighter everything became. Like freckles, more and more small specks of light revealed themselves and grew in quantity, in vibrancy.  Stars winked, and planets stared unblinkingly back at their witness, at the inconsequential bundle of atoms trying so desperately to understand them. 

The sensation of immensity overwhelmed her; the gravity of gathering stars and galaxies pressing and pulling at the soul.  In one moment, she was trapped by the pull of the earth, keeping her firm against solid ground. In the next, she was liberated, enveloped by the encircling sky.  And there she was free, until she was lost in the ever growing distance between people, planets, stars, galaxies, universes. Desperately, she grasped for patterns, for rhyme and reason in the clusterfuck of space.  Where were Luna’s constellations to point the way home? What was home but a molecule on a needle in a haystack?

The tickle of grass barely reminded Hermione of the steady ground below her, of home.  She was moving, slowly, subtly, as though on a ship drifting from where she was to where she should be.

Points, dots in the sky she couldn’t have connected before suddenly outlined a sketch, a constant in the ever-changing face of the universe, and it was her own.  As though turned to glass, into a celestial mirror, Hermione saw her reflection in the stars. They trickled upon her skin with soft, flickering kisses; left her cheeks red, and warm with the fire of suns.  Their energy spun in her head, wove theories of birth, evolution, free will, fate into her heart. What she felt wasn’t a connection to divination at all, but a strange curiosity, a fervent need to see all the possibilities of the present at once.  As many nebulae, as many planets, and comets, and black holes, and galaxies as there were in this universe, there were as many possibilities in life; there were the choices you make, and the choices you forego. But where does the energy of those neglected possibilities live?

“Do you ever think that maybe we’re star crossed, and that’s why things just keep constantly, consistently going wrong?”

Under the cynic’s voice was an open wound that tore at Hermione’s heart.  Under the same stars, lying on grass that felt just a bit softer to the touch, far from the maze of hell, she turned her head and saw a broken reflection of Draco Malfoy beside her.  He was scowling at the peaceful sky, relentlessly dedicated to making everything as miserable as he was.

Except her.

A gentle thumb brushed against her hand, soothing her tensed muscles even as he coiled his own.  This was not the Malfoy she knew and hated, but the Draco she knew and loved - somehow. It made no rational sense how he was there beside Hermione; how he was there willingly, holding her hand and speaking in tongues about a present she had no part in.

Yet, it made all the sense in the world.  

Hermione’s momentary confusion over where she was, and who she was with, was nothing compared to the overwhelming calm she felt with Draco.  It was static background noise to the pitter patter of happiness, slightly wet with sorrow, which dripped into her heart. Though thoughts raved at the hallucination before her, her body melted into the grass, down into the soil with relief at finally having this moment alone with him; with the boy, the Draco Malfoy her flesh and bones had known and adored all her life.

Hermione’s mind was devoutly her own, but her heart was a stranger’s.

“Far too cliche,” she heard herself say, felt her lips lift in a smile.  The voice was her own, as well; the same notes and frequency and patterns, though the words were spoken in another world.

Draco grimaced at the sky, in one last futile attempt to make it feel remorseful.  When that failed, he turned to look at the one star he did not loathe. Instantaneously, his wrinkles faded away.  His grey eyes, closer than she’d ever seen them before, remained tortured. Hermione was certain if it weren’t night, she would’ve seen every hue that created the grey irises before her, every emotion and choice that separated this Draco from the Malfoy she knew at home.

“You’re right,” he conceded, and if there was any remaining doubt about where or when she was, it was promptly extinguished.  In no time, past, present, or future would Draco Malfoy bend to Hermione’s will. At least, not in her universe. 

Draco sighed out his boiling frustrations and grappled for words she could never fathom him saying.  

“We’re not starcrossed.  We’re…” He murmured, his eyes distant in thought.  His mind seemed to float off into space, reaching for reason, a rationale she too searched for.  For a moment, his eyes glimmered with the light of a far off star being born. Draco had come to a realization, a conclusion about their fate in life.

His hand wrapped around Hermione’s, lifting them to the sky as an offering.  Slowly, with an affection that ignited every nerve in her body, his fingers entwined with hers.

“We’re universes, colliding.”  As though gravity would have it no other way, her hand was pulled to Draco’s lips.  In the back of her mind, Hermione reeled at the sudden, foreign contact. Yet, there was familiarity in the pressure and texture of his kiss against her knuckles.  There was longing, desire for more - so much more. “Consuming.” 

Draco smiled onto her skin, and every part of Hermione felt sadness in the shape of his lips, knew the goodbye he bit back  _ just one more time _ .  Every nerve end lurched towards him when his kiss fled, unsure if another would ever come.

He rested their hands under his cheek, burying them in the grass and away from the reaching grasp of fate.  

“Destroying.  Constantly destroying,” he seethed into the ground, his gaze turning to stone, moving away from her.  Her fingers tightened around his, the pressure crumbling through the stone. He gave another sad smile, his hand returning the fierce promise not to let go.  “But it never stops - this need to touch and be near you, always. Even if it means our mutual destruction. And I know that makes me selfish, but I don’t care.  I don’t want to care.”

A laugh escaped from her lips, nervously trying to pass Draco’s despair as his usual need for dramatic flare.  “Well, you don’t have to, because we’re not that either. We’re just two people,” Hermione reassured them both, though her airways threatened to cave in under the weight of worry.  “Two inconsequential, infinitesimally small organisms in a vastly, vastly large universe whose choices mean nothing in the grand scheme of things, if there even is a scheme. And whose lives are not determined by fate.  Because fate doesn’t exist, and because you are my best friend. You’re my best friend, and I love you, and nothing is going to change that.  _ You-Know-Who _ be damned.”

A smirk warmed her knuckles.  “By  _ You-Know-Who _ ,” Draco mused, scooting closer to her in the comforting cloak of night, “do you mean ‘You-Know-Who’ or my father?”

She laughed freely now, and it was so alien to her ears, too light when she felt so heavy.  Somehow, being near him always granted her the ability to defy physics, to defy logic if they so wished it.

“Both.”

Draco chuckled, and her heart nearly drowned with relief at the sound.  

“I love you,” he breathed, purifying the air between them.  Her blood danced, floated in her veins, threatening to lift her away when she so wanted to stay.  Hermione clutched Draco’s hand tighter, but she could feel herself slipping away on the current of his words, of the fear and promise that bled into them.

When Hermione opened her mouth, she threw up stars.  The space in between universes spilled out and throttled she and he light-years away from one another.  But even as she landed back onto her Earth, the grass blades stabbing into her back in harsh welcome, Hermione could taste the residue of stardust, of the “I love you, too” on her tongue.  It shot about, hovered and pressed with the energy of a nebulae nursery, waiting to be born.

Her chest ached.

“Well?”  Luna’s voice pulled her back again, reminded her to breathe.  Hermione gasped, devouring her home’s air, finding the taste wanting.  She found everything wanting, especially herself. Wanting everything, yet only one thing.  One someone, who was beginning to mean the world.

“Oh,” Hermione grimaced, “I got the cosmos’ message loud and clear.”

And it could go to hell.


	2. If We Could Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We are an apology, and unearned forgiveness._

Fate was pissed.  So, it had a vengeful little laugh and go at Hermione.  It laughed all the way down her spine, kicking each vertebrae as it went on merrily.  Or was that the aftereffects of the Cruciatus curse? Whichever face the pain wore, it was a cruel and disabling one.   Hermione couldn’t quite feel her toes or her fingers; all the blood had fearfully fled from her extremities, and raced for her heart, trying in vain to protect it somehow against a foreign and invisible attack.  Her chest felt torn apart, ribs creaking from the clawing, burning, yanking of demons begging entry. Her body ached to defend itself, but she didn’t have enough wits about her to grab her wand; it lay just far enough away to appear impossible to reach.  So, Hermione laid on the ground and took each blow fate dealt.

After all, this was punishment for interfering with the inevitable, the predestined.

Further down the Hall of Prophecy, and beyond, yells and breaking glass reminded her the dominoes had already fallen neatly into place.  All but one: herself. She’d fallen out of line, and was being promptly put back in her place. 

“Tell me what else you know,”  Lucius Malfoy hissed from above.  Maddened, he smashed futures beneath his feet as he paced.  He didn’t care for anyone’s future but his own, and they both foresaw what a bleak one he’d have after tonight’s failure.  After both of their failures.

Hermione avoided his glare, and gazed at the shattered prophecies- all scattered about and bleeding smoke onto the floor.  Shards of glass pressed into her cheek, dug into mortal flesh and mocked her.

To think: it was Lucius Malfoy’s own son who’d warned her of the trap Voldemort set for Harry.  Who’d comforted her over Sirius’s death. Of course, not now - not here. And not the same Draco Malfoy who’d held a wand to her neck only hours ago, warning her not to interfere with his father’s plans.  Not the Draco Malfoy who lurked somewhere in the shadows, avoiding a fight he’d chased after. Not that Draco Malfoy. Never that one.

“It was so obviously a trap.  There’s nothing  _ else  _ to it,” Hermione spat, and tasted blood on her lip.  Before she could ponder too deeply on the blood’s source, animals came for her corpse, tearing at her arms and legs - or at least, that’s where she thought the pain came from.  It’s with that image in mind that Hermione screamed.

“ _ WHAT ELSE DO YOU KNOW _ ?” Lucius roared as green lightning bolts shot out at her body.  There was a sudden pause in the attack, as his spell, and voice broke under pressure.  Panic, even. If Hermione remembered correctly, past the torture, the deatheater was frightened because Voldemort would arrive soon.  And he had nothing to show for his pathetic attempts at his master’s approval. She almost laughed.

The sliver of a man before her didn’t deserve the knowledge she bore.

“Pick up one of the glass balls you haven’t broken yet,” she groaned.  “You’d have better luck with that, than with me- because I don’t know anything!”

Lucius halted, and his preciously polished dragonhide boots - scratched through the mayhem - hovered over her fingers.

“Lies,” he affirmed, with fumes in his belly.  Hermione looked up at him then, choosing to ignore the feel of glass - stuck to the bottom of his shoes - pressed against her fingertips.  She chose instead to revel in the bleeding scar he now adorned across his cheek. She bit back a  _ you’re welcome _ .

“You’ve foreseen these events,” Lucius continued, and she heard ~~Draco~~ Malfoy in his voice; the fright, the suspicion, the disbelief that she, muddied as she was, could possess such a strange gift.  They didn’t even understand that it wasn’t foresight, and sure as hell wasn’t a gift. 

It was a cosmic joke.

“You knew of Azkaban.”  And wasn’t able to fully prevent it.

“You knew of this attack.”  And again, wasn’t able to fully prevent it.  She’d watched, held against her will and helpless as Sirius’s body slipped beyond the Veil.

What was the point in seeing what she saw, if not to save at least one life?  Just one? It’d been too late for Cedric when she’d had her first vision, but it hadn’t been too late this time around.  

At least, it wouldn’t have been if not for Draco fucking Malfoy.  She still felt his cold hands, pulling her back from the fight, restraining her as destiny played its game.

“ _ Tell me what the prophecy says _ !”

“No.”

Hermione steeled herself for the lashes to come.  

Frantic with cowardice, Lucius slashed at her skin with the Cruciatus curse, so utterly convinced that her body contained all the answers he needed to please his Lord, to satisfy, to survive the war to come.  It was to be war, after all. The deatheaters were assembled, broken from Azkaban after Hermione and Harry’s pathetic attempt to thwart the escape. The Ministry was weak and trembling with fear at the mere mention of  _ He Who Must Not Be Named,  _ and they left students defenseless under the tyranny of Dolores Umbridge.  She already knew Voldemort would make a public appearance tonight, and shake Harry to his core.  She already saw the morning paper, declaring the demon’s return - all had already unraveled in another life.  And she knew there was war to be had, and it started that very night.

So how was it, as she screamed in agony and fury, that the sight of Draco Malfoy appearing from the shadows brought her some strange sense of safety?  Even when she knew he wasn’t really there to save her, but to save his father? How was it that she longed so desperately for him to call out to her, to shield her?  Hermione knew he didn’t have the guts to do it, not in this life. He was too much of a damn coward, with just barely enough stomach to tell his father to stop - and even then it did nothing, because Malfoy’s words meant nothing.  They were white noise beneath her screams. 

And Hermione continued to scream as every atom in her body split apart, creating a chain of nuclear explosions; her sense of self was obliterated.  She wasn’t quite aware of who she was outside of the scream - that she knew to be her voice. Until it turned shrill, and primitive. Then she knew nothing of herself besides hatred and pain, and the way a body writhes on the floor.  With eyes squeezed shut, she saw bursts of red fire - then stars. 

Merlin, how she loathed stars nowadays.  They taunted her with all the endless possibilities of the universe, while condemning her to just one gruelling path.  She screamed at them, aimed her anguish and rage at them:  _ how dare you? _  She howled.   _ How dare you show me everything, yet give me nothing but this - this suffering and impotence, and hope for things I cannot hope to grasp?  How can you be so cruel? _

Instead of screaming back, the stars raced towards her.  Their light swallowed her cries- swallowed her whole in a blaze that burned reality down to ashes.  Finally, the fiery explosions tearing through her body and blood made sense enveloped in the stars’ inferno.  But she was there only momentarily, in transit, before the warmth of stars became the warmth of arms.

“Hermione,” a voice whispered soothingly, and the explosions ceased.  A body pressed against hers, pushed her ribs back into place. Hands rubbed at her back, eased her groaning spine.  A beating heart reassured her stuttering one. 

“Hermione, it’s okay.”

Forgetting herself, she collapsed into the embrace, dropped her head upon the security of broad shoulders and breathed in fresh summer air, infused with a boy’s cologne.  No screams, no sharp edges, no pain or fear. Just breathing. Just living, fleetingly buoyant.

Memories that weren’t hers, not really, flooded her mind again; public displays of affection, private showings of adoration, laughter and trust between two friends, two partners, two souls with nothing to hide from one another.  No hatred, and no doubt. Just love.

“Draco,” Hermione sighed, all malice lost in the space between them and the world she’d momentarily left behind.  His arms tightened about her, promising the safety she’d been forsaken elsewhere. This was the Draco Malfoy she’d hoped to know.

But, his name was not hers to say, and not with such transcendent happiness.  He was not hers to claim, and she was not his to hold.

Her Draco Malfoy wasn’t the kind who knew kindness.  He was the boy pushed her away with threats and accusations of madness.  He was the boy who stood idly by as she screamed. He would always be that boy.

Abruptly, Hermione shoved Malfoy away and summoned her hatred as a shield.  

The ground swayed beneath her, nearly tipping over, and Hermione realized they weren’t on land.  The night sky surrounded her; the moon and stars above reflected back at her from below. Faint ripples of water assured her she wasn’t completely insane.

“Why the hell am I on a boat?” Hermione blurted out in frustration.  She’d intended to storm off, but that plan - as most of her recent plans - was efficiently thwarted.

“Hello to you, too,” Malfoy sighed, wrestling with his feelings by fidgeting with the boat’s oars.  

He was taking this transition much smoother than he had before; there’d been quite a bit of gawking, and second-guessing, and “are you sure you’re not mad?”-ing the first time stress sent Hermione into an utter body-swap.  Luna had coined it “full immersion”. Full-on mental is what it was.

She glanced at the lake below, sprawling out for quite a ways.  It was a good enough distraction from her shaking nerves. Hermione grasped onto the wooden sides, stabilizing the bile rising from her belly.  Though her body was tranquil, her mind ached enough to compensate for the lack of physical torment. Full immersion came at a cost, no matter how unwilling the traveller.

“Again: why the hell am I on a boat?”

Malfoy pulled the oars onto his lap, before Hermione could seize them and bash his head in.  She had a look of pure hatred upon her face that rattled him to the bones.

“Well, we-” He grimaced, and retracted before Hermione could snap at him.  “ _ My _ Hermione and I wanted to walk away from the mess for a little while.  Long enough to breathe, clear our heads.” 

Hermione scoffed.  “It’s past curfew.”

“Not here, it isn’t,” Malfoy corrected awkwardly, fiddling with his hair.  He could be shot across galaxies, and still be so enthralled by his own appearance.  “Curfew isn’t until midnight.”

“Of course it isn’t,” she laughed humorlessly.  “And I suppose the Giant Squid is-”

“What Giant Squid?” Malfoy blurted, body rigid with alarm.

Hermione’s sarcasm was stunted by the outburst.  “The Giant Squid that lives in the lake?”

Instinctively, Malfoy peered over the side of their decidedly small boat.  He glanced back at her curiously. “Wouldn’t that be rather dangerous to have on school grounds?”

“She’s harmless,” she replied, slightly offended by the contrary suggestion.  Of all things to be afraid of on school grounds. Malfoy raised an eyebrow, still skeptic.  “An encounter with Peeves is dangerous. Not with the squid.” 

“Dare I ask what a Peeves is?”

Finally, her patience with the world snapped.  “Oh!” She burst, hands shaking. “So this the universe changes, but not the death of-”

She closed her eyes, and breathed in, and out, to the count of ten.  Her hands stilled. 

“It happened over there, then.”  His solemn voice, filled so heavily with guilt, bore no resemblance to the Malfoy she had seared onto her eyelids.  

She opened her eyes, and spotted Draco’s hands just at the perimeter of her own - hesitant, tormented.  He wanted to comfort her, but she was a hostile stranger in familiar skin.

And he was a remedy to her pain, disguised as poison.

Hermione’s fingers curled away from him.

He retreated back to his side of the boat.

“Can I ask what happened to you?”  Malfoy asked anyway, his throat clenched.  Though he kept his distance - at least, as much as one could on a boat - his eyes were keen on watching her.  Hermione determinedly gave him nothing to see, face stoic.

“No,” she murmured, “you cannot.”

Frustrated, he ran his hands down his face.  “She’d tell me,” he sighed, muffled into his palms.

“What did you say?”  Hermione snapped.

Malfoy dropped his inept hands onto his lap, where he stared at them.  “I said: she’ll tell me.”

Her anger froze.  Hermione had hoped her other self simply went unconscious for a time.  But, it was as Hermione feared then: a complete switch of minds.  _ His  _ Hermione’s peaceful broadcast was being rudely, crudely interrupted due to her involuntary switching of the channels.   

It came to her then why Malfoy was so bothered, why he wrestled with his hands and knitted his brow.  He was desperate to know what was happening to  _ his _ Hermione.  It had nothing to do with her.  At least, that’s what she told herself to keep the warmth from flooding her heart and lungs.  

There was no point in hoping for something, or for someone who was never hers.

Hermione pulled her attention away from him, from the want of him, and gazed at the stars on the water.  She trailed her fingers over them, and watched the ripple effect scatter constellations; in seconds, worlds were disrupted and irrevocably changed… until the water settled, and everything fell back into place all over again.  The unyielding will of the cosmos.

Hermione glared at the onyx waters, demanded its depth to reveal itself.  

_ What was the point?   _ She steamed.   _ What was the bloody point of it all? _

“So,” Malfoy murmured, tapping the oar.  He peered over the side along with her. Though, he was much more interested in Hermione than in anything the water had to offer.  His gaze held hers steadily for longer than she should’ve allowed. Two silver moons filled with concern, and overwhelming, loving humanity  fed a budding, starving seed inside her; it filled out an empty corner of her heart.

“If you’re really from another universe: what am I like over there?” He asked to distract her from whatever worries wrinkled the skin about her eyes.  It was the wrong tactic.

“You’re an asshole,” was the impulse reaction as she bolted upright, and wrapped her arms around herself.    Hermione had to protect herself somehow, and cruelty seemed the accurate outlet.

Malfoy chuckled to himself, and shook his head.  There was a pained, curious smile on his face; as though he’d heard this all before.  “And you’re not that original with your responses, in either universe.”

“And you’re still an asshole,” she reminded him, and herself, promptly- she didn’t have room to feel pity or compassion for this boy.  No matter how many images of him filled her head, it wasn’t from her life. All her visions throughout the year were of a boy she knew nothing of, of a boy who didn’t exist.  Yet, the visions still blossomed lasting memories and dreams of a smiling, ridiculous boy who bent over backwards to impress, to prove himself worthy of her laughter. He was still a prick, and there were regressions they bickered over, but this Draco Malfoy had revealed layers of complexity to Hermione in just that year alone.  And kindness, and gentleness. Such loyal, protective gentleness.

Her assertion of asshole-ishness were half-assed, to say the least.  Malfoy felt comfortable, and free enough to genuinely smile, then. 

“But I’m  _ your _ asshole,” he clarified flirtatiously.

Hermione pressed her lips into a thin line, refusing to smile at his advances.  “I feel like that should be promptly followed by an apology.”

He laughed outright, and sighed as he watched Hermione- all puff and smoke and fire like a dragon.  And just like a dragon, she exposed a soft underbelly. “You know, you’re not that different from my Hermione.”

Immediately, the image of this other version of herself appeared- a hazy reflection in the water, moonlight softening her edges.  Reflected was a girl she honestly knew nothing of. She had a like-mind and body, but there were colors in her hair and eyes that didn’t quite match in vibrancy.  The way she smiled felt too giving, especially to the likes of a Malfoy.

How would that girl react to the complacent, cowardly Draco Malfoy she found on the other side?  Would she open her arms to him, too? After everything he’d said and done? After everything he was bound to do?

The water rippled, distorted the image, and Hermione snapped back into herself.

“I beg to differ,” she shot condescendingly.

Malfoy frowned.  “Am I allowed an explanation?”

“She’d have to be drastically different to take you on,” she continued spitting venom.  It was the only way to keep him from getting any closer. “What does she see in you?”

He bit his lip and glanced down at his shoes, prepared to slip them off and jump into the lake.  

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he murmured, clearing his throat of the needles stuck there, “but judging from the ongoing hostility, I assume I’m not that great of a person in your timeline.”

The boat swayed under the added weight of guilt.  Hermione clutched tighter onto her forearms, and fought the urge to reach out to him.  She refused to forgive this boy for the mistakes he’d never made. If she forgave him, she’d forgive the boy reflected in the water, too.  And that just wouldn’t do.

“For once, you’re correct,” Hermione forced out coldly.

Malfoy’s lips eased into a pensive smile, his eyes trying to read this Hermione, to understand; just as he hoped she’d come to understand him.

“She sees potential.  You see, my looks aren’t the only good thing about me,” he teased, trying to keep it light.  Hermione’s eyes remained shielded and overcast. His smile wavered. “I know it’s difficult for you to believe, and I’ve put together that events just didn’t happen the same way between us- over there.  But here? We’ve been friends since our first year together. Now, fate is a tricky, slippery thing and we argue over it all the time, but I do ardently believe that certain choices can change everything- and I made a choice when I first saw you-”  Draco’s eyes sparked with light, but Hermione’s hardened. His smile threatened to fall overboard, but he held onto it. 

“When I first saw  _ her _ .  You see, I thought: dear Merlin, not another big-headed, know-it-all Ravenclaw-”

Hermione’s head began to spin.  “I’m a-”

“No, no,” Draco laughed, waved a hand to keep Hermione from going too far ahead of him.  “Gryffindor. I should’ve known better, but I was just so thrown by you.” 

When Hermione steeled herself again, shoulders pulled back, as though ready to throw arrows at him, Draco moved forward in his seat - determined.  

“Yes,  _ you,”  _ he declared, the spark of starlight back in his eyes _. _  She found it hard to loathe the universe when it showed itself in him.  And that was quite a dangerous notion rooting in her heart.

“You and your unruly hair, and orderly manners, and impossible personality.  I was a brat then, still am a bit, and I couldn’t stand your big curls and broad mind.  I couldn’t bear the fact that I had to compete with the likes of you for seven years. I couldn’t believe that when we were in class, you didn’t spare me a single thought, yet you were at the controls of my brain.  I hated that I couldn’t get your attention, so I had to decide just how to embed myself in your thoughts. I could either force you to hate me, or inspire you to love me,” he paused, and his smile spread across lightyears of space.  “I chose the latter.”

“Everyday, to this day, I make choices about the person I want to be for myself, and for you.  I’m still, as you put it, an asshole but not to the same degree as when we first met. You wouldn’t have any of that, and I so desperately still want you to have all of me.  So, I chose a different path than the one set before me by my father. I changed. I grew, and I hope it’s not too late for the Draco you know to do the same as I have.”

Hermione felt her cheeks burn, and looked away.  She stared at the water again, and her Draco Malfoy stared back; wide-eyed and voiceless, he was nothing like the boy who sat across from her, who reached out to her, who longed for her in ways she couldn’t completely comprehend.  The two were the same faces, just on different sides of a coin. They would never see eye-to-eye. They would never make the same choices. No matter how much any of them hoped. 

She tossed the coin, and her wishes to the water, and let them drown.

“When she comes back,” Hermione determined, “you better live up to that potential.”  She turned her gaze to Draco then, eyes ablaze with pain, and kindling envy. “Hell, you better make up the difference between you and your alter ego.  She’ll need it. She’ll need  _ you _ .  Not the Draco Malfoy she’s facing now.”

Draco’s face crumbled as she spoke but, even though his voice failed him, he nodded as promise to her.  

Suddenly, as she smiled with relief at that small gesture, Hermione’s mind pressed in on itself, collapsed into a destructive black hole.  Bells rang in the distance, pressing at her ears and summoning her back to her own reality. She squeezed her eyes shut as they throbbed with the changing pressure.  Something hot and thick trickled from her nose to her lips.

“Hermione?” Draco’s panicked voice reached into the noise and pulled her out.  She felt warm hands upon her cheeks and opened her eyes to see him, so close, stars still dusted upon his eyes; she hadn’t left yet.  Unguarded, dangerous relief swept over her, eased the ringing just enough to make it tolerable. Just enough for her to give well-deserved attention to the way Draco held her.  

He pulled at the sleeve of his shirt and used it to wipe the blood from her nose.  His hands cradled her face, tried to shield it from the unseen forces pulling her apart.  Too tired to fight the impulse, Hermione leaned into his touch, and embraced the safety he offered with just the brush of his fingertips.  She would’ve liked so dearly to stay there with him, suspended in the cosmos, for as long as an infinity lasted.

Still, the ringing alarm reminded her this was not her peace to have.

“Time to go,” she commented with a broken smile; an overall pathetic attempt at lightheartedness.

She couldn’t stand Draco’s pained expression, and nearly wished he was that same, selfish prick she knew and hated in another life.  It would’ve made parting so much easier, and this stolen moment just as easy to forget. Either way, she would will herself to forget.  She had to, for her own mental sake.

But then Draco did something she’d have seared onto her heart until the end of days.  He kissed her, with a frantic energy that feared he’d never be able to kiss her again.  At least, not this version of her. Fervently, he pressed his lips to hers, and pressed them into her memory.  He tried to make up the difference between he and the boy who was too stupid and afraid to do what was necessary and kiss the girl of his dreams- the girl that could’ve been of his reality, if he’d been brave enough to choose such a life.

When his lips left hers, it was to breathe into words what his kiss meant to do: apologize.  “I'm sorry.”

Lightheaded, and feverish, Hermione didn’t understand.  “For kissing me?” She murmured.

Draco smiled, and pressed his forehead to hers.  “No. Never, ever for kissing you.”

Her hands searched for him, and held onto the fingers still pressed to her cheeks.  “Then, for what?”

“For who I am,” the words flooded out of him painfully, and she realized he’d been drowning in them since the moment she’d first appeared, all barely bottled rage and heartache.  “For who I couldn’t be, for not loving you as I know I could, as I know I should. I’m so sorry. I’m so pathetically, uselessly sorry.”

“It isn't you,” Hermione tried to alleviate his guilt, and to rid herself of the useless comparison between the boy who was and could’ve been.

“But it could have been,” Draco angrily voiced what plagued both of their minds.  “And I’m so sorry.”

Hermione’s heart filled with all the words he poured out, and the water that drowned him watered and flowered a forest inside her.  She forgave him every transgression, both he and the broken reflection of him she saw when she closed her eyes and thought of home. She shouldn’t have, but she forgave him, and she kissed him.  She kissed the boy she longed to have for her own, the boy she loved beyond the borders of time and reason. She kissed the Draco Malfoy she hoped would show himself to her in every universe they crossed together.  She prayed the lips she kissed would find hers again in another life, in her life- not through dreams or reflections of lives lived elsewhere. She hoped fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to show her this, and give her nothing for keeps.

As she found herself wishing to stay, there was the taste of hydrogen and helium on her tongue, and the gradual expansion of galaxies between hers and Draco’s lips.  She let the star-painted waters part them, let them wash her aches away, and the waves of time gently washed her back to her shore. 

When she came to, it was to see the back of Draco Malfoy, disappearing past the mayhem as Order members rushed through to gather defeated deatheaters - including his father, who lay unconscious at her feet; a mysterious reversal of power she credited instantly to her other half.  And even though Draco did not once look back as he fled, Hermione could summon no malice from inside her heart. She still had the freedom of forgiveness in her lungs, and the warmth of his lips on hers. Hermione decided that whatever fate’s game was in showing her this other life they led together, she could take comfort that somewhere within him there was the capacity for goodness.  There was hope for this world yet.


	3. Fates Entwined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There is more to us than meets the eye._

_ “Happy 22nd Birthday, Hermione.” _

What a cosmic joke.

Nagging pain of various origins stirred Hermione back into consciousness.  She opened her eyes, and was greeted into reality by dirt. She was distantly aware that her body was haphazardly horizontal, and that there was the smell of gardenias and all things green.  Her eyes scoured the ground for clues, her head to heavy to lift, and spotted two pairs of black derby shoes to either side of her. Hermione’s mind tried to remind her of something, why those derby shoes meant something, but then her body demanded full attention.  

Each step they took gave a tug at her body, which she realized was ridiculously slack with exhaustion- and something else.  She suspected a paralysis of some sort. Her jeans scraped against uneven cobblestone, the skin on her knees torn raw. Rough hands yanked at her arms, dragging her further and straining sore muscles.  She bit back nasty curses. 

Something about the pain jogged her memory, just as smoother marble steps took form and stabbed into her shins.

She flinched, closed her eyes, and her chest filled with euphoria.  A blinding, sly smile flashed across her mind’s eye.

_“You shouldn’t have.”  She grinned, beside herself.  Her fingers were clutching onto a photo of her parents, much older than she’d last seen them four years ago.  But happy. They waved in the picture, as though they knew their daughter to be peering through the film._  

 _Overwhelmed, Hermione abandoned her place on the bed and clutched at the man beside her, squeezing him tight.  He kissed her forehead, and warmth trickled over her like the sweetest sunshower. She tilted her head up, and there was Draco Malfoy, beaming with pride at another successful birthday present._  

_ “Visiting them was extremely risky.  You really shouldn’t have,” she said again, sighing against his lips when he stole a kiss.  His hands roamed low, wanting to steal even more. _

_ “I’d risk anything for you.” _

With an unnecessarily brutal slam, Hermione was thrown into a cell.  She barely had time to acknowledge the sleek limestone floor and walls or the one, peculiar sheet of mirrors reflecting her, before one of her Deatheater captors yanked her up again and tossed onto one of two steel chairs.  Her teeth gnawed on smart-ass comments about how stupid it was to throw someone on the floor, only to throw them into a chair.

Hermione’s last slick remark had warranted quite the bruising on her cheek.  Her right eye was slowly swelling from where it had smashed against a rather crude stone edge.

Hands seized her wrists and held them down while the other ghoul latched them to the chair with a particularly infamous pair of chains.  Once butthead one and two had left the room, sealing it shut behind them, Hermione’s curiosity got the best of her. She pulled her arms up from the wrists.

The cuffs immediately constricted around her hands, little needle-like hairs shooting out to stab at her skin.  

“Ow,” she muttered in frustration, and laid her hands down on the armrests.  She glared at her hostile surroundings; obnoxiously pearl white, polished, and imprisoning.   

The rumors were true, then, about this place.

Hermione Granger hadn’t ever felt the need to visit the Malfoy’s Manor after her last visit nearly four years ago.  She hadn’t cared for the gritty, claustrophobic walls, rusty chains and screaming cell door. She still didn’t care for it, even with the upgrades that made it look like a posh, Gringotts storage room.  There was a reason why the walls were sealed and polished stone now; easier to wipe clean of blood and other foul body excrements. There was a reason for the lone metal table and chairs; easier to coax information from a prisoner.  There was a reason for the wall of mirrors to Hermione’s right; easier to trick a prisoner’s mind, to drive them to insanity. Now there was no more need for undignified shows in the middle of the Malfoys’ foyer. It was all done now within these four, despicable walls.

To think, Hermione had never intended to visit these walls.  Had sworn she’d rather be killed on the toilet than be dragged here. 

Yet, here she was.  And all because she’d forgotten to take her fucking vitamins.  Well, a special type of vitamin -to be exact.

Hermione dropped her head back and stared at the bleak ceiling.  Blood slipped up her nostrils and dripped down her throat. A throbbing headache knocked on her skull.

All she’d had to do was take Luna’s blockers.  That’s all. But Hermione had been careless, stressed the hell out, and had left the dainty little elixir bottle on her nightstand.  The last time she’d taken it was nearly a week ago. And the visions were coming back, full throttle, and royally screwing things up.  Again.

Hermione closed her eyes, and was graced by a memory from her own life.

_ “Two drops.  No more. No less,” Luna instructed as she placed an innocent-enough-looking purple vial in Hermione’s palm.  She held it, tilted it, watched the liquid swirl around. Her head groaned at even that meager movement. _

_ “And it’ll get rid of the vertigo?”  Even though the concoction had been partially of her own making, and at her own request, Hermione was dubious.  She shifted nervously on the bed. _

_ “Of course,” Luna stated calmly, even though she’d just performed a pretty primitive form of brain surgery.  “The vertigo, the visions, and the hemorrhaging. Take it now, and every day.” _

_ “And if I don’t?” _

_ “Neville and I haven’t agreed on what might happen the next time you have a full immersion.  He says brain damage, and paralysis. I’m pretty sure you’ll die.” _

_ Hermione stared for a good long second at her friend, Luna Lovegood, in all her tranquility.  If she was bothered by the possibility of Hermione croaking over at the age of 19, she surely didn’t show it.  It was all very technical. Just a matter of fact. _

_ “Thanks, Luna,” she grumbled as she opened the vial and used the dropper to plop two drops - no more and no less - onto her tongue.  It tasted tart, and her tongue seemed to instantly dry and numb from the contact. _

_ Someone sighed heavily from her left. _

_ “This sucks.  The visions were helping,” Ginny grumbled from her perch on a nearby desk.  Hermione glanced over at her rather callously. _

_ “Did they help when Harry died?”  She drawled, and instantly a boulder of guilt and shame dropped in her stomach.  Ginny’s tormented expression immediately turned hot.  _

_ “Fuck you, too, Hermione.”  There were fresh tears, boiling just at the rim of Ginny’s flame-licked eyes. _

_ “Forgive me if I’d rather not bleed my brains out on the off-chance that my game of peek-a-boo with an alternate universe saves our asses.” _

_ “You know,” Ginny spat, gaze glassy.  “You’ve turned into a real ass hole.” With that, Ginny leapt off the desk and stormed out of the medical tent.   _

_ Hermione’s head throbbed still, but she had a feeling it had nothing to do with her alternate self.  It had everything to do with her, here and now. She sighed and rubbed at her forehead. _

_ “I’m splitting apart, Luna.  Those useless visions are splitting me apart.  Am I such a monster for wanting them gone?” _

_ “We did save Fred with one of those useless visions,” Luna reminded Hermione quietly. _

_ “Yes, we did,” Hermione groaned, raising her head a little too quickly.  Luna’s beet earrings stretched and jiggled oddly in Hermione’s vision. She blinked, and everything stilled.  “But that was a year ago. Since then, when their Harry survived and ours didn’t… things are just too different.  Their war is different. There’s nothing to predict.” _

_ Luna smiled, surprising Hermione yet again with the unexpected reaction.  “But you enjoy seeing him, don’t you?” _

_ Hermione’s eyes stung suddenly, burning with tears she refused to shed.  Whether Luna meant Harry, or  _ him,  _ the answer was the same: “Yes.” _

_ She took a sharp, deep breath, and shifted closer to the edge of the bed; eager to get back to work.  Even as Luna’s leg inched out, as if to trip Hermione if she even dared try leave. _

_ “But that’s not worth the side effects, as you’ve reminded me time and time again.” _

_ Suddenly, Luna’s inner tranquility was disturbed, and ripples formed on her face.  Concern. “That reminds me. Hermione,” she stepped in front of Hermione then, completely blocking off exit.  “As much as I recommend this treatment, there are a few things you should know. One, after a few doses food might not taste the same to you.” _

_ Hermione snorted.  “Not like the food at this camp is any culinary masterpiece.” _

_ “That’s just taste,” Luna continued on, unaffected, “but other sensations will be dulled, too.  You and I both know that this is an inhibitor, to block what we can only really treat as hallucinations.  Since they’re triggered by strong emotion-” _

_ “You’ve had to dull sensation.” _

_ Luna frowned.  It didn’t look right on her.  “Yes.” _

_ “Well then,” Hermione huffed, shoving the vial into her shirt pocket.  “That’ll help with the raging ass hole tendencies I’ve been having.” _

_ “In a way,” Luna shrugged.  “You might become an apathetic ass hole instead.” _

_ Rolling her eyes, Hermione stood up from the bed and dodged Luna’s advances to put her back down.   _

_ “Let me know at least a week ahead of time when you’re running low so Neville can prepare a new dosage,” Luna continued on, her voice reaching Hermione at the tent flaps despite how quiet she always was.  Like she was being respectful of the air around her. Meanwhile, Hermione kept stomping around. She was done paying respect to a cosmos that obviously cared little about her. _

_ “Of course,” she replied with a nod back at Luna.  “Wouldn’t want to experience a withdrawal from this type of drug.” _

The withdrawal was a raging ass hole.

She ground her face into cool metal, but the inferno still raged under her skin- cheeks flushed and cells melting.  Every little touch of fabric against her flesh - every soft brush of hair against her ear and forehead - the most apologetic bead of sweat on her brow - all of it was at once too much and not enough.  Flickers of rough hands on her thighs, rubbing her - a knee between her legs, pressing her. Then, gone, leaving her with jeans that were too hot, too constricting, too indifferent to her needs. She squeezed her thighs together to relieve the pressure.  Heaven. Hell. Absolute fucking hell.

With the clink of a door, another level of hell was unlocked.

Hermione sat up, and tried best to compose her face.  It was bad enough how she’d been caught in this ungodly place.  She refused to have a full-on episode here, of all places.

The first thing she saw was the new Deatheater mask that had been circulating since Voldemort’s victory at the Battle of Hogwarts; a twisted onyx demon’s head rumored to grin or snarl depending on the lighting.  The demon’s head belonged to a slender, elegant man whose suit was fine-pressed and tailored to enhance already sharp, sculpted edges.

Her gut whispered the name hidden behind the disguise.  The incandescent silver hair, tousled and dangling as it was over the corners of his mask, was the final piece of the puzzle.  

Her gut’s whispers morphed into shouts.

Her demon stood at the doorway, body angled in a way that presented the utmost disbelief.  After a moment’s consideration, his shoulders shook with a surprised chuckle, and his idle hands shrugged out of his trouser pockets to cross at the waist.  

“It truly is she: Lioness of The Order,” the demon breathed in equal parts admiration and amusement.  

The voice was singularly satin and shameless.  It was singularly  _ him _ .  Draco Malfoy, in the flesh.  After years of waltzing around each other on the battlefield, they had finally come to the knife’s edge.

For a reason Hermione did not care to give voice to even in her thoughts, she relaxed at the sight of him.  Only to strain against her chains, tense the second one of those Derby-wearing jerks advanced, gearing to enter.  Malfoy’s hand shot up, and she caught a glimmer of his family’s crest heavy on his ring finger. Something about it churned Hermione’s stomach.  And then she realized:

It was his father’s ring.

“Don’t insult her intelligence.  I’m the one to deal with her,” Malfoy casually remarked, dismissing his subordinate.

The masked henchman wavered at the doorway.  “Lord Malfoy, the guests-”

“-are dull,” Malfoy droned.  The other Deatheater began to leave, but then Malfoy snapped his fingers, crippling the other man instantly.  “Do not speak a word of this to anyone, not even him - but tell me immediately when he arrives. I’ll inform the Dark Lord myself.”

With that, the Deatheater dipped a bow and left, locking the cell door behind him.  Malfoy’s hands resumed their place in his pockets. After another painstakingly long pause, he sauntered over to the table; the only sound being the briefest contact of dragonhide Oxfords to stone, and her calculated, deep breaths.  Hermione’s eyes diligently followed his moves like a cornered predator, frustrated she couldn’t strike out and tear off that hideous mask.

Her vision contracted and contorted; grotesquely the mask melted off and Draco was there, stripped raw and sweet and smiling.  He was naked for her to see, and steel chains softened to sheets and pillows. His hand was on her cheek, stroking it so gently it didn’t even sting the bruise there.  His other hand was somewhere south, between them-

_ “Beautiful.” _

Oh, with searing clarity, Hermione knew exactly where Draco’s hand had gone.  She tasted blood in her mouth; the effect of biting down hard. Her nostrils flared, and Hermione blinked rapidly, tugged at the chains just to feel the sharp reality of knives at her skin - trying her damnedest to focus.  This was how she’d gotten in trouble the first time around.

Malfoy brushed aside the designated seat he traditionally sat in.  Instead, he approached closer to his prey, and sat on the edge of the table.  His knee brushed against her leg. Hermione’s thigh twitched. She ignored the much more bothersome muscle spasms in… other regions of her body.

“What a serendipitous meeting,” Malfoy sighed happily, finally pulling off the mask- but not the disguise.  He placed the demon’s head on the table, and turned his true form to her. The face of Narcissus grinned smugly.  

“To think, my Lord will be here in less than a few minutes to dine, and here you are.  A darling little gift.”

“Still a kiss-ass, I see,” Hermione sneered, determined to still her heart as he laughed.  This wasn’t Draco, her husband. This wasn’t Draco, rummaging around in her head, caressing skin and thoughts only he knew.  This was Malfoy, her enemy. This was Malfoy, the rising Deatheater whose torture methods were precise and vile.

“The rumors are false, then,” he had calmed the riot, and was back to staring at her.  His gaze was falsely omniscient, stoic face parting slightly to reveal nostalgia. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“I wouldn’t test that theory.”

“I have a better theory to test out,” Malfoy stated languidly, and crossed his legs between hers.  Hermione shifted uncomfortably, receiving a positively gloating expression from her nemesis. 

“Say, how about we construct a hypothesis together,” he continued.  “If you’re here at Malfoy Manor, then…”

His eyebrows rose expectantly at her.  Hermione gave him her best presentation of absolute boredom.  “...I must be here for the festivities.”

“Null hypothesis.”  He rejected her briskly with a wave of the hand.  That same hand, smooth by an absolute disregard for work, slithered to her chained wrist.  Carefully, inquisitively, he ran his finger through a small pearl of blood that poked out from her shackle.  It took just that momentary touch to send nerves on overdrive, sparks in her vision making her glitch. The shackles exchanged for human hands - his hands - wrapped tightly around her wrists, pressing them down into the sheets, knuckles banging against the headboard.

Hermione clenched her jaw, dug her nails into her own palms.  The pain brought her back to her unfortunate reality.

“Data says you hate parties, especially of the distinguished variety.  So, let’s try again: if you’re here at Malfoy Manor, then…”

Hermione offered Malfoy only her glare as answer.  She wasn’t going to play his games.

He smirked, as though thoroughly enjoying the thoughts in her head.  “...then you must have known that the Dark Lord would be here. Are you alone?”

“No,” Hermione bit out, and then cried out; the chains constricted with python accuracy around her wrists, crushing bone.  It was then that she thought to really look at the cuffs that held her captive. Just in time, she saw a snake’s form slither across her wrist, before settling down into a less animated, steel form.  Its eyes were the locks, glinting at her.

“Alone, then,” Malfoy boasted while she ogled her restraints.  She pursed her lips, aggravated.

“Upgrades have taken place, I see,” she commented coolly, trying to keep herself together.  Her head was still so very much on fire. Hermione was certain she wouldn’t have screamed out so before, if not for the ridiculous overload of neurons firing off in all directions.  They didn’t know what to do with themselves, after so long a slumber. It seemed they’d decided to punish her.

“Oh, yes,” Malfoy replied with a nod.  “We’ve noticed an increase in truth serum immunity.  Your work, I suppose.”

“And this is your work, I suppose,” Hermione retorted tartly.  Conceited, and far too ready to brag about his achievements, Malfoy beamed at her.

“Yes, it constricts whenever you lie.  It’s simplified matters greatly.” Malfoy sighed, leaning into her space- as if to confide in her some deep, dark secret he was ashamed of.  Absurd. The glint in his eyes was filled with darkness- but it was no secret. It was all laid out there, for all to see. It was his light he hid.  It was his light that kissed her mouth and whispered love onto her throat and chest. It was love he hid.

“You see, I don’t like jumping into torture.  Lacks finesse.”

Hermione swallowed hard against all the things she wanted to yell at this man, to claw into his wretched face- all in hopes of clawing through to the man he could be.  To the man whose body was not afraid to touch hers, to love hers, to be beside hers.

When Hermione did not say anything, a very uncharacteristic behavior that nearly rattled Malfoy, he prattled on.

“So, you’re alone.  No weapons found on you,” Malfoy listed, waiting for something to flash to the surface of Hermione’s eyes.  She refused to satisfy him. He snickered. “Peculiar, as having the pureblood families and the Dark Lord himself here seems the ideal opportunity for assassination.”

“It would seem that way,” Hermione replied monotonously.  Her body, however, refused to remain unmoved. Beads of sweat were licking the sides of her face, and down the nape of her neck.  She could feel a tongue chasing after them, a mouth drinking her up. Hermione resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut, to disappear completely into that other world- just out of reach.  Just-

Instead, Hermione held Malfoy’s dissecting gaze steadily, challenging it to find fault in her.

“To think,” he murmured, the corner of his lip twisted upwards in something he must’ve thought was a smile.  His right leg unhooked from his left, and drifted closer to her. “Your unknown plans were thwarted by... what was it again?”  Malfoy’s shoe brushed against the side of her bare foot, successfully distracting her from the real danger- his hands. In the split second it took for Hermione to look down at their legs, Malfoy’s palms were electric on her knees.  Fingers dug into the beginnings of her thigh, beginning a lightstorm beneath her skin. 

“Ah, yes,” Malfoy breathed heavily onto her cheek as she jerked in her chair, teeth snapping down on her lip.  “Cries of pleasure.”

His hands stroked upwards and everything burst; Draco was sliding over her body.  Hands at her thighs, firm and tugging, pressing them around his waist. She was all loose limbs, curling and hugging him; as was he.  He was everywhere, except the one place she desperately wanted him most. His breath pressed hot on her neck. His tongue pressed soft on her collarbone.  His teeth pressed hard on her shoulder. He pressed bold into her-

Hermione threw her head back and moaned unwillingly.  White ceiling stared down at her, a great smile in the sky- laughing at her.

Successful in his endeavors, Malfoy’s body retracted from hers.  “How interesting,” he marveled with eyes wide as he observed Hermione’s writhing.  She took deep breaths, counting to ten, trying to calm herself. 

“I’d heard you were blocking your visions,” he mused, leaning back casually as Hermione struggled for control of her own mind and senses.  Even the slight shuffle of fabric as he moved was jarring and crude to her ears and eyes. 

“Of course, you shouldn’t be talking about those things to people, Granger,” Malfoy reprimanded her as though she were a child.  “Puts an incredibly large target on your back, and makes you seem rather mad. I’ve kept my visions quite under lock and key. Probably too late for you to do the same.”

Those words cut through the noise quite efficiently.  Hermione stilled in her struggles and eyed Draco. She was still panting, feverish, but she knew what she’d heard.  “What- you?- How did you hear that?”

Then, as the withdrawal went into a short, blissful remission, reason explained it all.  That demon head on the table leered at her, jogging her thought process back to life. Those masks were being employed again not just for intimidation, but for anonymity.

“You planted a spy in my camp.”  Why did she sound so offended?

Malfoy’s lips twitched and he leaned in, winking.  “Spies, darling. Plural. And we have spies in every camp we’ve found, so don’t feel too special.  Can’t have this rebellion overstaying its welcome, now can we?”

It was clear he enjoyed his effect on her.  It was like watching a cocoon rattle and crack.  Something beautiful and fragile was guaranteed to come out.  Neither of them seemed sure if he wanted her to rise, or to crush her under his shoe.

“Have you no heart?”

Malfoy’s chest puffed up, and the way he filled in his suit was far too pleasing.  Hermione pressed her nails down into the freshly dried cuts on her palms.

“Heart is weakness, and I’ve strived hard to gut it out.”

Draco’s eyes, full of love, overwhelmed her vision for a moment.  In the next, it was struck down by Malfoy’s cruelty.

“Narcissa Malfoy would be so proud.”  She hadn’t meant to say it. Had been biting down on it.  But something had to be let go. So, out it came. No malice.  Pity.

It had the effect of a knife to the back.  Malfoy shot up from his lethargic position, and claws dug into her arms as he leaned over her.  “You have no right to that name,” he spat. So close, Hermione saw something shimmer just beneath the collar of his shirt.  A necklace. The fine imprint of a ring just to the side of one of his buttons, blanketed like something cherished. She felt the warmth of sheets around her, and Draco’s hands soothed where Malfoy’s claws stung.

“You must miss her,” she breathed, her voice thick and throat tight.  The image of his face - Malfoy’s face - flooded her mind, from four years prior, as his mother was in a blink, alive and pleading on the steps of Hogwarts and, in the next, a falling ragdoll.  Lifeless on the floor. He’d looked so broken in that moment; fine porcelain shattered, as though he’d been thrown to the ground with her. This was a face she’d never seen on Draco before, nor had she since.  His mother was alive and well, protected by the Order. 

Malfoy’s mother wasn’t even buried in the Malfoy’s mausoleum.

“She was a traitor,” Malfoy answered coldly, and promptly recoiled from her.

“She was your mother,” Hermione asserted, refusing the polished mask he still kept on to hide his shattered pieces.

“And for that, she was executed.  Her love for me blinded her, made her rash.  She should have known lying on Harry Potter’s behalf was absolute folly.  Between her and what you did to my father,” the last words spat venom in Hermione’s face.  In her defense, it had been her alter-ego who’d put Lucius Malfoy into a - well-deserved - coma.  “I’ve learned quickly. I’ve done my damnedest to climb this filthy ladder, swearing my allegiance in every cursed way.  This is a game of survival, and I am thriving.  _ Thriving! _  I have everything I could dream of.”

His arms were spread out wide, as though the room surrounding him would be the best example of a healthy life.  His pupils were dilated, wild and hungry black holes, a Malfoy’s lustful ambition apparent in their disastrous depths.  He was as much his father as he was his mother, and that is what tore and splintered his spirit. He had yet to learn the balance, as Draco had.  Because of this, he was quickly consuming everything in his wake, and would continue to cave in on himself.

She eyed him carefully.  “Power?”

The black holes shuddered in ecstasy, his hands crunched into knuckles- seizing something from the air.  “ _ Yes _ ,” he hissed vehemently.  It collided with the exquisite moaned  _ yes  _ of Draco.  Hermione let out a stuttering breath, in awe and in fear of the stark contrast in sound.

“How can you be this way, when you’ve seen what I’ve seen?”  She whispered, truly mystified. Malfoy’s face twisted, arms lowered to his sides.  He seemed almost insulted.

“How can you?” He retorted bluntly.  “You collected quite the nasty kill tally over the last three years.”  Malfoy was practically purring praise at her, and his hand idly pushed a wet curl from her face, tucked it behind her ear.  Grinned when her ear flushed at the touch. “Yet... by some twist of fate, she’s a bit of a saint, isn’t she? And you’ve got the makings of a demon.”

His hand still lingered at her hair.  Hermione fumed and twisted her neck away from him.  Unfazed, fingers floated down to her shoulder, and squeezed.  A reassuring massage. A warning. 

“War makes nightmares of us all,” Hermione grit out, pushing back the waves of emotion pounding at her skull and spine.  Contact made it all so much worse. “I’m fighting my demons.”

His thumb trailed down her collarbone, up her throat; scattered lightning across her skin.  Even if she didn’t scream, Malfoy felt the tremors beneath his fingertips. His hold on her tightened possessively.

“But wouldn’t it be more fun to befriend them, as I have?”  

The words slithered into her ears, snakes hissing reckless thoughts into existence.  Thoughts of both his hands on her - his, not Draco’s. Not the sweet, broken saint of a man who fought beside her alter-ego in another life; whose hands were calloused by hard work and sacrifice; whose words were filled with more kindness than malice; who drank in her kisses and her body like a fine wine.  She wanted to know first-hand the jolting difference between that man and this one; whose hands were soft and greedily strong; whose words could charm the devil into submission; who would swallow her down like shots of firewhiskey.

“You know,” Malfoy murmured, his thumb pressing down at the roof of her throat, “you could befriend the demons, if you just gave me information willingly about why you’re here, about your camp… without the unnecessary torture to both you, physically, and me emotionally-”

His words had inadvertently woken Hermione up to her wits.  She snorted as his request.

“-You might find yourself with a comfortable place within these walls.”

Hermione cackled, but it came out rough with Malfoy’s thumb still confining her airways.  “These exact walls? I don’t think so.”

“You know what I meant, Granger.”

With strength she’d been reserving, Hermione jerked her head back, pulling away from his grasp.  That one motion had her brain rattling around in her skull. She sturdied her expression to remain aloof.  “And you obviously don’t know how wretched your master is to mudbloods.”

Malfoy’s nose spasmed.  He was starting to get annoyed.  Good. “Things can be overlooked.  After all, we have a werewolf-”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, a sinister smirk on her face.  The demon Malfoy so adored stirred in her belly. “Had.”

There was a spark of respect, and the figment of a smile.  “I see. They didn’t report that to me.”

She rolled her eyes, and leaned back in her seat.  To her pleasure, this unsettled Malfoy. “Why would they?  He was, after all, a werewolf. Your kind don’t care much for his kind.  He had a name, you know. Fenrir Greyback. Another tally.”

“You could easily fill his place.”  Malfoy was still trying to convince her.  He was better off torturing her.

“And easily die in his place?” She scoffed.  “Disposable? I don’t think so. Besides, I’d rather die a martyr than a rancid Deatheater.”

That nose of his twitched again, and twisted.  A nasty wrinkle formed between his brows. She was getting under his skin.  It was absolutely delightful.

“Just answer the questions I have for you.”

She didn’t respond well to demands.

“Kill me, and then I’ll talk.”

“I’ll call your bluff, dear,” Malfoy seethed.

Hermione went completely slack, at ease.  When Malfoy so clearly was not. 

“Come closer, and see if I’m bluffing.”

As expected, Malfoy let his petulance get in the way.  He stood up and stepped between her legs, thighs crudely pushing against each other until hers were spread apart enough for him to tower over her.  His arms shot out to either side of her head, grabbing the chair hard enough to make already pale knuckles bleach completely of color. At this angle, he was staring straight down into the soul of her, long strands of silver tickling at her forehead.  He’d meant to intimidate her. He’d meant to terrify her with an invasion of the most personal sense, of mind and body. He’d meant to say:

“Don’t test me, Granger.”

Except, Hermione had other plans.

She sprang up at him.  Her lips collided with his in a kiss that slammed him into her world- the one that was splintered glass of all other worlds besides this one, in each shard an image of what they could’ve been: allies, friends, lovers, incorrigibly  _ happy _ and  _ free _ of this nonsense.  She kissed him onto a bed, with springs that knew just where to fall and rise from years of use.  She kissed him under sheets, and there he was Draco. He was all hands and lips and hips. Hands pulled her body to his whenever the world threatened to move her away, bruised fingerprints onto every part of her, lathered in her affection and squeezed out more and more of it.  Lips swallowed moans and tattooed adoration on her skin, leaving marks and trails of ashes where blood once was. Hips rocked through waves, thrashed against hers without fear of losing himself in her depths. 

And she was warmth and love, wrapped around him, shielding and bathing him in hope.  

She’d meant to pull away, but Malfoy grabbed at her shoulders.  He deepened the kiss hungrily, tongue invading her and searching out more of the pleasure she was miraculously giving him.  He pressed into her, his knee a blunt hiss of pressure between her legs. Her fingers brushed against the his coat, felt the outline of a wand-

Malfoy tore away from her, nearly knocked the table over with the force of it.  Hermione’s fingers clutched angrily at the air.

“Perhaps the rumors have some merit after all,” Malfoy murmured, wiping his mouth with the side of his hand.  Hermione noted the flare of red in his cheeks, the swollen ruby of his lips. She wanted to see that color spill out of him, for her.  “That was quite Slytherin of you, Granger.”

She grinned, and something about it made Malfoy snarl.  

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Unconsciously, Malfoy leaned in again, lust and… something else in his eyes.  Hermione arched forward in her seat, egging him on. His lips were just there, inching closer to hers; kissable, bitable.  She wanted to make him scream.

His breath fell like smoke.  Even though it was bad for her, Hermione breathed him in.  

And then she breathed him out.

“Let me go, Draco.”  the words were soft, tender.  Hopeful. They had no place in this hostile room, where shrill cries lived in the walls and blood was hidden in the floors.  They had no place in this gruelling world of hers. They belonged elsewhere, in a kinder world. One she and Malfoy were only ever welcome to in the briefest of moments.  A dream, nearing illusion. 

Complete delusion.

“Let you go?” Malfoy said just as softly, tenderly, salivating from the hope of it; there was a tinge of sadness in there somewhere, too.  Just beneath want. This close, Hermione could see when he took a turn for the worse, his eyes turning at once from water to ice. 

“Let you go?  If that little tryst assured me of anything, is that I’m  _ never _ letting you go.”

Swiftly, Draco was slipping out of reach.  Hermione’s body felt like it was spinning in place. 

“Please-”

Malfoy removed himself from the situation, stepping away from Hermione.  Allowing her to seethe alone. “Don’t beg. It’s beneath you and I both.”

The price she had to pay for that small trip to heaven was worse than hell.  Her skin howled at her, enraged and aflame. Her skull might as well have been completely splitting down the middle.  She reckoned it was, peeling from the forehead down to the end of her spine. She needed the elixir.

Hostile energy drove her to insane measures.  She thrashed in the chair, yanking at the chains- not caring when the needles sprang out and stabbed into her.  

“LET ME GO!”  She screeched, the demand bloodcurdling to anyone but Malfoy.

He was at the side of the table now, toying with his mask; it was snarling now.  He spoke to it, rather than her. “But then we’d lose our guest of honor. My Lord has been waiting to hear of this alternate universe of yours.”

“Don’t you do that,” Hermione hissed, her hair clinging to her skin now.  The sweat accumulating on her did nothing to tranquilize the heat. She felt ready to burst into flames.  Still, her eyes locked onto Malfoy, demanding he look at her. “Don’t you shut yourself off again. If you wanted him to know, you’d tell him yourself.”

Malfoy sighed.  “But you see, I can’t.  I locked that wretched door a long time ago, Granger.  It’s been at least two years since my last vision, excluding that rather...  _ stimulating _ one just now.”

“Elixirs?”  She guessed, frustrated but at once intrigued.  Perhaps he’d have one on him, one she could snatch.  She’d take it now, over his wand.

He shook his head, and remained neutral.  He might as well have put the demon’s head back on.  

“You might not have control over your own mind, but I do, Granger.  I cannot be forced to see anything, nor do I care to see it.”

How could he lie to himself so fully?  How, when his mother was pressed to his chest and his kiss had left traces of longing and desperation on her lips?  How could he be so opposite the man who denied himself nothing, loved with all he could, and refused to give into darkness.

Hermione howled with rage, and slammed her fists against the armrests.  Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up at that. 

“You do care!  Damn it, you can’t hide under that mask.  You don’t have to be this person! You don’t have to pretend you’re heartless!  You loved your family fiercely, your friends, you have a heart as strong as mi-”

Her body convulsed.  Luna’s warnings wrapped around her skull and squeezed.  She tried to focus on the wrapping of arms around her; the shudder of emptiness and depth of filling over and over; the press of a firm body on hers; the tightness in her belly as ecstasy mount to a euphoric level Hermione had not yet experienced in this life; the clamoring of nails against skin and cries of pleasure.

Her body and mind was being torn apart, but a piece of her moaned in rapture of the divine mess her life had become.  She caved in on herself, felt blood drip down her nose and kiss her lips in Draco’s place.

Malfoy was on her immediately, hands ice on her shoulders as he pulled her up and examined her.  Was that concern on his face, or just wishful thinking?

“How full of feeling you are,” he remarked quietly, in reverence and wonder.

Hermione wanted to sneer at him, but lacked the control of muscles.  She didn’t bother fighting it when he placed a handkerchief to her nose, and wiped the blood away.

“And you, devoid,” she muttered bitterly.  His responding laughter pulsed through her like calm waves.  Deceptively calm. Hermione knew better; there was a rip current in there.

“You’re about to make me blush with such compliments,” he replied imperviously.  “Alas, I have not succeeded just yet in that endeavor. I simply have control over my emotions.  And you,” Malfoy finished cleaning the blood and poked a finger at her nose, “not.”

Now, Hermione had the strength to grimace.  “It’s you who’s about to make me blush.”

Malfoy barked out a much harsher laugh then, before carefully placing her into pristine condition again, properly seated.  He placed that same finger that touched her to his lips, and grinned something wistful. “What a fascinating creature you are,” he mumbled.  “To not have gone completely mad with all the mess in your head.”

She fought hard to keep her head from rolling back; exhaustion was now the one hitting her in waves.  “I’ve been told I’m good at compartmentalizing,” she grunted snidely. “Example: my feelings for him, versus my feelings for you.  My greatest accomplishment.”

Those bright, mischievous eyes of his turned dark then, with envy.  She had yet to see this color on him, a tarnishing of silver that left it looking green and rusted with filthy intentions.  He gave curt huff of breath, meant to be something of a laugh, and his lips twitched up just enough to warrant the title of a smile.  A ragged sigh escaped his lips and then Malfoy wrangled his mussed hair, placed it back into place.

She watched him, her alarms ringing and warning her not to drift off, as he walked predatorily, pensively around the room.  He was reminding her that she was not the apex predator here. This was not her den. This was his. And while she was here, she was his.

A chill ran down her spine; an unwanted reminder that she was not in fact paralyzed or dead from the visions.

Malfoy had made it a quarter a way around the room, and paused in front of the mirrors.  His image reflected around her an infinite amount of times; each one a more menacing, tempting enhancement of the last.  To think, there could be as many worlds out there, with each of these reflections cast upon them. At least she knew of one where Draco Malfoy was good, and kind, and hers.

“It is your birthday, isn’t it?”  Malfoy asked, drawing her back from longing reveries.

“Yes,” she responded, highly suspicious of the question.  Malfoy nodded, and continued his path around the room. She fought the urge to turn her head; that would show fear, intrigue.  Hermione felt both, but refused to display either.

Suddenly, Malfoy’s lips were at her ears, his arms dripping like tar down her chest.  Languidly, he pressed a round, cold and heavy object into her palm with such care Hermione suspected foolishly for a moment it was his heart.  When Malfoy’s hand crept away, dragging fingers up her lower arm and curling around the bend of her elbow, a galleon presented itself to Hermione.

“A birthday present,” he murmured low and lecherous.  She swore she felt the flicker of a tongue at the rim of her ear.

“It’s a coin,” she said, though he must’ve known.  Another game, and she the toy.

“A deal,” Malfoy corrected with a hum in his voice; it promised wonders and terrors, believed them both to be the same.  “A deal in the form of a little game of chance.”

Hermione’s body rejected such a notion, and Malfoy chuckled at the tension in her neck; at how her pulse quickened with anger; how her hand twitched to throttle the coin at the opposite side of the room.

“Ah, there she is.  The Hermione Granger who despises leaving things up to chance, to fate.  Divination was always such a sore spot with you. Quite ironic, your situation then.  Do you ever stop to laugh at it, darling? Hmm?”

Hermione formed a fist around the coin, her palm hot rage against the cool, indifferent metal.  A perfect analogy for her relationship with Fate. She, who struggled against Fate’s strings and unwitting tied herself a noose.  And Fate, who gladly yanked and hung her victim every time.

“What are we flipping for?”  Hermione composed herself, remained calm in the midst of the inferno.

“Everything,” her nemesis - her lover - kissed into her earlobe.  Knowing it repulsed her to want him, Malfoy’s arms coiled around her, fingers dancing rings of fire onto her hips.  “Don’t you find it odd? It’s a flip of a coin, how we ended up like this: Demons or saints. Torment or happiness.  Enemies or lovers. Rage or,” he definitely licked her this time, “lust.” 

Suddenly, his hands were snares at her waist.  His mouth feral at her ear, hissing. “We’re not them, Hermione.” 

“We could be.”  She wasn’t sure where she’d gathered the breath to speak.

“No, we couldn’t,” he sighed, making a mockery of the tragedy.  “But, I’ll let you believe for a while. Hence, the game. We flip for our fate.  Heads, I let you go and I,” she could hear him flinching, “go with you.”

“And tails?”

His hands dragged up her stomach, scratching at her innards.  

“Tails, we see just how far we can diverge from that little dream of yours,” Malfoy murmured darkly, his own sinister dreams penetrating her ears and violating her mind.  His breath was no longer smoke, but dragon’s fire at her cheek. “We already know who we could be. Wouldn’t it be fun to find out who we really are: demons or saints?”

An old curiosity of hers bubbled to the surface.  It was the hunger to learn more about good and evil, about the human condition.  How long into the night, and early morning, had she stayed awake reading of demons and saints?  How often had she wrestled with the notions of primitive evil versus its evolution, and possible regression?  

Could Malfoy be nurtured back to the Draco she’d seen the day his mother had died, still so full of flaws but still so full of humanity?  Could she sculpt him into the man who cried out her name so devotedly in the moments of bliss? Could he do it on his own, with time?

And how often did she lay awake, fear’s chills running down her spine and sweat suffocating her pores, wondering if she was capable of darkness; if the elixirs had turn her far too apathetic to pain and death; if the visions had torn her limb from limb and rearranged her innards, twisting her into madness; if perhaps she was born to be this creature- raging and inflaming.  If fate was truly her enemy, or if she herself was.

“Flip it, Granger,” he dowsed her thoughts in gasoline, his hands more like shackles than the ones she wore.  Her heart was in her throat, and Malfoy knew it; teeth bared and ready to bite down the moment he’d won.

He couldn’t win.

She flipped the coin and caught it in her hand.  Hermione peered down at her fate.

“Heads,” she announced inaudibly.

The snakes at her wrists tightened.  They were nothing to the hold Malfoy had on her.

“Tails, it is.”


	4. Our Wills Bound and Signed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And I am yours, for better or for worse._

“Your husband is pouting again.”

A spoon stilled in its dutiful stirring, yet the milk in Hermione’s tea continued to swirl a lazy galaxy at the window sill.  Hermione paid it no mind, and looked up, frowning, from the book on her lap. 

Her tranquil moment alone had ended sooner than even she’d expected; she’d just settled in after a gruelling Order meeting, not even a paragraph of the essay read.  It was, so far, four years of nonstop walking and apparating - from meeting to meeting, from battle to battle, from safe house to safe house. Four years of nonstop building - building up Order recruitment, building up camp sites for the recruited, building up morale and hope.  Her feet, her hands, her throat were screaming for some kind of reprieve that only came just in time to leave again.

She peered up from her comfortable spot in the kitchen window seating, and there was Harry leaning at counter - oblivious to the peace he’d stepped on.

“Pouting?” She regurgitated, eyeing Harry suspiciously.  His lips were perked up just a little too highly above his mug; Teddy’s colorful doodle of himself and his godfather smiled and waved at Hermione from the ceramic.  Both of them looked far too mischievous. “What did you do now?”

Harry snorted.  “Nothing,” he swore, taking a sip to keep his intentions contained.  “Yet.”

There was a slap as Hermione closed her book; the galaxy in her cup shook and dissolved.  She sighed, and scooted off the bench. “Harry-”

“He’s the instigator- king of the sofa,” he defended himself with a gesture to the doorway, challenging Hermione to take a peek, “mumbling insults at anyone who dares enter his dwelling.”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione approached the doorway to the common room and peeked out to see him.

Her husband.  

Draco lay like a plank, his stretched legs crossed and hooked beneath the coffee table - blocking any attempt at seating on the right side.  A long arm sprawled out on the sofa, claiming the domain with ease, all while his head laid back with eyes closed. Radio off, television actually unplugged, and curtains nearly completely drawn; the curtains in this room always got jammed somewhere in the middle, making it impossible to seal off that last few centimeters.  A slender sliver of afternoon sunshine breached his moody abode, kissing blonde eyelashes and sealed eyelids; knowing very well Draco wasn’t asleep; knowing very well he craved light and warmth. 

Even when he was being painfully dramatic.

It was second nature to Hermione when she looked upon him for her fingers to brush against her wedding ring.  To twirl it twice, all the way round. To feel it hug her skin, and beat against it with the heart that paired hers.  To be kissed by the faintest press of engraved words, scrawling themselves over and over, on infinite loop

_ For all the years that were and will be: I love you. _

Memories Hermione sometimes found so dreamlike hummed sweet through those words.  For all the years that were: from that first year together when his wide, ridiculously steely eyes gaped at her unkempt appearance, rolled at her voice, and avoided her glances in class.  Until, one day, he’d so casually stolen Harry’s seat across from her in the Great Hall and asked her to be his partner in Potions. “Everyone in that class has the IQ of a drooling troll, except for you.  No one else will do as my partner,” he’d said so bluntly, so absolutely refusing “no” for an answer that he’d promptly sat next to her in Potions that very afternoon; no one dared to touch that seat for six years.

For all the years that were: to that third year together when his hand ventured to hold hers in the courtyard, and Hermione had forgotten completely the plot of the novel they’d been discussing.  When she turned her palm over to press against his, fingers sweetly entwined and curious about the soft rise of his knuckles - about the cute way Draco had to clear his throat before reading a noted passage in their book.  It hadn’t taken very long - perhaps a week or two - for Hermione’s heart to swell, for it to snatch the reins and claim his already singularly focused affections with the briefest, boldest of kisses to the lips - just before class, utterly devastating Draco’s pristine Transfiguration record.

For all the years that were: to that fourth year, at the Yule Ball, when Draco had asked if her feet hurt, and she’d laughed and said “no” - because her feet had never once touched the ground.  To that fifth year when Draco sought comfort in holding her, expectations from home too much for his shoulders to bear alone. To that fateful sixth year, when Hermione was a statue outside the Slytherin dungeons, refusing to leave until Draco fucking Malfoy came out of hiding and finally talked to her; when their relationship had been at once heaven and hell, full of fights and desperate need to understand one another.  To the moment Draco told her the truth of his mission, and she’d cried out of anger for her uselessness and fear for him. To the very next, prompt moment when Hermione had resolved with dry, determined eyes to help Draco deceive Voldemort. To the chaos of the night Dumbledore had died despite their best efforts, and the years of running together began. 

To the longest second of her life, when Draco proposed to her in the middle of a battle.  “No one else will ever do as my partner. Will you marry me?” His eyes bright with bolts of earth-scorching lightning, an archangel’s face beaming fealty and devotion through layers of grit and dried blood, hands anchored to her arms.  His heart anchored to hers, forever, the moment she’d said “yes."

_ For all the years that were and will be: I love you _ . 

It was second nature for Hermione to lean against something solid, permanent, and smile softly to herself, to take a deep breath of relief in remembering, in feeling, that this was all so very much real.  

These days, reality was a trial she found herself losing.  

In waking, Hermione wasn’t sure if she had actually fallen asleep; if every time she felt Draco’s arm heavy with slumber around her waist, saw the gentlest hint of a laugh on his face when she stirred - if it was all just an elaborate delusion, a dream to protect her from reality’s nightmare.  The nightmare of Draco Malfoy’s fierce, menacing grip at her wrist, the sight of his sneer when she begged him to remember himself, to be the human he’d buried the day Harry Potter died. 

And oh,  _ oh _ , the tombs Hermione walked past in sleep.

Panicked, Hermione squeezed her wedding ring.  As though Draco felt the pressure at his own ring, his eyes eased open.  Grey steel caught her, held her still, pulled her down from the storm clouds that were very much the same, beautifully dangerous color.

She pressed her head to the door frame - between sky and ground, unsure which was up or down, her smile stuck between those two places.

“Fact of the day:  We make what we believe,” Hermione murmured, mostly to herself though she knew Draco could hear her.  He would’ve heard her even with lips and ears sealed. “Our reality is shaped by dream, and only in nightmare is reality revealed.  ...Challenge?”

Draco’s gaze and expression remained in that passive stage of sleep, despite the game Hermione’s eyebrow quirked up to engage in.  Challenging each other was just a way of life between them, from poetry to politics. Now, when the day-to-day attacks of war ached their bones and dulled sharp minds, they seized sanctuary in the exercise of debate and delightful inquiry.  Even when Draco agreed with her fact of the day, it was a safe bet that Draco would challenge her- if only to listen to her speak.

“No,” he mumbled, position on the sofa unchanged.  Mood, unyielding. Oh, he was cross about something alright.  “I’m guessing you’ve been at it, again. Reading philosophical ramblings of old, dead men.”

“Old, dead, and sometimes wise men,” Hermione corrected as she lurched off the frame and breached Draco’s doom and gloom room.  She strode over to the curtains and thrust them open, fully expecting Dracula’s hiss; Draco muttered something under his breath, which was close enough to satisfy Hermione’s expectations.  

“I’ve been trying to find some kind of explanation for the visions,” Hermione continued as she approached the television and plugged it back into the wall.  She was one of few confident enough to dare approach electricity, even after spending nearly a year at this current campsite. 

“When it comes to the human condition and perceived reality, who best to turn to than philosophers?”

“As I’ve said before, it’s not a matter of perceived reality, but a duality.  You’re better off reading science or astrology journals,” Draco replied, his body shifting reluctantly as Hermione slipped onto his lap; it was a crime not to wrap an arm around her waist, not to bend his legs to give her a more restful seat.  

She folded into him with the ease that came with years of imprinting her shape onto his.  Hermione barely ever sat on the sofa, as its cushions were not used to her, and could not contour a stranger’s body the way she needed.  Draco was the only comfortable spot in all the houses they’ve been in; his body that one, just right, loving fit of home.

“I am,” Hermione mentioned; positive tranquility to his false calm.  She peered at him, his eyes having closed again, and refusing to open even as Hermione’s hand stroked his forehead clear of stray hairs.  She grinned when one of the blonde strands hugged her fingertip; Draco was developing curls, as of late - something that tormented him, amused her greatly, and was completely to blame on the sea salt in the air.  At times, Hermione was tempted to spray his hair with sea water while he slept, just to see his reaction in the morning. 

She stifled a laugh by kissing Draco’s brow.

“You know,” Hermione grinned when she received a soft purr of approval, a subtle tightening of arm around waist.  “If you’re going to sit here and not let anyone in… You should read a book-”

The purr turned into a groan.  “I’ve read them all two times over-”

“- Or watch a series.”

Draco’s eyelids flickered at the mention of the television, his lips pursed in an adorably pink line.  “I refuse to touch that muggle abomination. It hates me.”

Hermione laughed freely then.  Memories of their first month at this house bounced around in her head; Draco’s curiosity turning rather sharply to frustration and outrage when he realised the remote was nothing like a wand and ridiculously complicated to operate (the batteries had died, but Hermione figured she could wait to tell him that).  

“It’s an inanimate object.  It cannot hate you.”

“Challenge,” he countered bitterly, his eyes finally opened.  Annoyance was clearly visible in their expression. Just not for what they were discussing. 

“Draco, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he drawled… After deliberately drawing the curtains, bathing himself in shadows, and lashing out sulkily at anyone that entered a highly communal room… right next to Hermione’s favorite reading nook.

Hermione cocked her head and glared down at her husband knowingly.  “Challenge,” she called him out with a snort. “You’ll get premature wrinkles scowling like that, and we both know how important fine aging is to you.”

Draco lips flicked down in a frown before flatlining again.  He aimed his gaze at the ceiling. “It’s not a crime to want to age like wine.”

“Then maybe you should stop whining,” Hermione suggested, the tease of a smile on her lips. 

Draco glowered, but it was no match for Hermione’s hands.  When her palms pressed happiness onto his cheeks, he melted helplessly into her hands.  She held him tightly. 

“You’re upset,” she eased into the issue, already feeling Draco’s muscles lock up around and beneath her.  “Let’s discuss it like adults, please.”

Draco scowled.  “I didn’t realize I was being childish,” he stubbornly shot around Hermione’s mouth as she planted kisses to the edge of his lips.

“You’re always childish.”  The retort’s quickness and harsh truth were unfortunately softened by Hermione’s voice; even when she was being cruel, her kindness bandaged his ego.  

Draco’s scowl deepened, and he shifted around; feigned movement as if he meant to leave.  

As if.

His arm remained firmly around Hermione, might’ve even constricted a little bit.  He was afraid that unloading his mind would drive her to leave. Hermione’s gaze remained just as firmly on him, prodding him to give into her will.  

Draco sighed, resigned.  “Pavarti called me a privileged prick.”

Hermione’s face brightened with humor.  “Sounds like her,” she agreed, but her eyes were still narrowed critically.  Draco’s demeanor was still so troubled, something sad and self-destructive stirring restlessly and hungrily between her hands, eating away at her husband.  “But it doesn’t sound like why you’re upset.”

“No, it’s not.” Draco conceded, a frown creating deep gashes in his marble facade.  His eyes dodged hers, looking instead at the small space between them. “I’m upset because you might still believe I’m that person.”

Hermione’s lips perked, the little gust of wind that came out her nostrils evidence of a barely held-back laugh.  Draco’s frown practically touched his chin now. “A privileged prick? Sometimes, you are.”

“Hermione,” her husband groaned, twisting his head to get away from her touch.  So that he could really scold her, really be cross. Without that contact, it was much easier for Draco to feel negative, and to hide in shadows.  With it, he was always struggling to fight off absolute bliss.

“Draco,” Hermione mimicked his tone and clutched harder at his face, her strength unrelenting.  He gave up much too quickly. “How long have we been together?”

Exasperated, he sunk into her palms; cheeks poured out between Hermione’s fingers.  “Eight years,” he grumbled.

“And how long have we been friends?”

No matter how stubbornly he resisted the urge, those scowling lips fumbled and started slipping up.  She saw the hope of a smile, and the jagged trouble in his eyes softened in memory. “Eleven.”

She shook her head in wonder of him, made him grunt out in complaint when she pinched his cheeks.  “Do you honestly think I would keep you around for that long if you annoyed me that much?”

Draco grinned, and Hermione saw in his eyes the reflection of her that first year: all fire ready to burn Draco Malfoy if he ever crossed her.  “No.”

“Then that settles it,” she concluded with a quick little pat to either side of Draco’s face.  Hermione readied to scooch off his lap and fetch her book from the kitchen, but Draco’s arm was still anchored around her and his other arm hooked around her thigh.  

That little pat had snapped his frown right back into place. 

“No, it doesn’t,” Draco pressed, determined now to purge whatever was eating at him.  “Hermione, I heard you talking with Ginny this morning.”

Well, that had been an innocent enough conversation.  Hermione’s brow creased in confusion. “About the baby shower?”

Her husband took a deep breath, readying himself.  He wasn’t looking away anymore. Draco studied her carefully.  Hermione’s gut wrenched at the sadness creasing his eyes, at the fact she’d somehow put that emotion there.

“About Ginny and Harry’s plan to raise their family in a small house, somewhere near a lake.” 

Oh.  

Hermione’s stomach completely dropped as Draco’s words hit home.  “And you said-”

“-I couldn’t ever see myself in a house any bigger than this one,” Hermione repeated words she’d said in a fleeting moment of honesty.  Ginny had looked at her oddly that morning, but had said nothing. Hermione had thought the moment would fall between the floorboards and stay there.  But Draco had caught it in his hands, and carried the weight of it all day. 

“Malfoy Manor is much bigger than this one,” Draco said, his voice strained and eyes avoiding the grief and guilt hers held.  They told him everything he needed, but didn’t want, to know. “When were you going to tell me that you’d changed your mind?”

She let out a breath she’d been holding for weeks, since the moment she’d had her first vision after years of absolute radio silence.  Since- “It’s a recent development,” Hermione excused pathetically, swallowing the memories down, staring at her hands as they squeezed and twisted one another.  “I couldn’t find the right moment to tell you.”

“Well,” Draco’s voice sounded dangerously distant, and bitter.  Distressed. Worried, Hermione finally gathered the courage to look at him, to confirm her fears; Draco’s jaw was clenched, exterior hardened to protect a hurt, fragile interior.  “Before now would’ve been great.”

“Draco, it isn’t what you think-”

“Really?”  He derided her attempts to calm the inner turmoil.  Draco pressed his head back into the sofa, eying Hermione skeptically.  He bit the inside of his cheek, those sturdy arms around her wavering. He was frustrated, incensed, insecure.  Hermione’s heart crumpled at the sight.

“Because what I’m thinking,” he fumed - mostly at himself for not having thought of it all sooner, for not having predicted this very mess - “is that even though it’s tradition for Malfoys to live at the manor, you wouldn’t know what to do with all those rooms, or the servants in those rooms.  That you desire control, but not over others. But you wouldn’t want to put them out of work, either. And that you cringe at the sound of Lady Malfoy - there, you just did. That you hate the technicalities of being Lady of a household infamously known for its pureblood heritage and customs. That you don’t want to raise children in a prestigious house of privilege like their father, and his father before him. That after seeing who I am, who my family is, you don’t want to live as a Malfoy.”

His words were smoke from a barely-suppressed fire.  Hermione was lightheaded from breathing it in. With a huff, she tried to push it out of her lungs.  She turned to straddle him, hugging his body between her thighs. Determinedly, her hands grabbed his and held them, kissed his fists, persuaded them with sweetness to open and cradle her face.  Cooling the dragon down. 

“Draco, I married you, didn’t I?” She pressed even firmer into his memory with a look of devotion.  “I am a Malfoy, but you’re also a Granger now. There has to be a compromise somehow. I just…”

She hadn’t told him about the violence of her visions, of the chills that ran down her spine whenever she thought of walking those halls.  How much worse would the confusion be of reality and dream if she lived there? 

“I can’t live in that manor,” Hermione confessed into his hands, barely suppressing a shudder at the thought.

The storm clouds in Draco’s eyes still churned in turmoil, more sorrow than rage.  His fingertips curled into her cheekbones. 

“Is that why we haven’t been trying?” He asked so quietly Hermione thought she’d imagined it.  But his face was broken from doubt and pain. She wished suddenly, and fiercely, that this was all just a horrible bit of her twisted imagination.  “Because you don’t want to raise a child in ‘that manor’?”

Suddenly, there was bile rising from her stomach and a distant knocking at her skull.  She felt ill at the prospect that this - this is what he’d been thinking of since morning.

“No, that’s not why,” Hermione rejected fervently, voice chipping at the edges.  “Draco, we’re in the middle of a war. It’s not a healthy experience for children.”

His expression turned incredulous, shoulders tense, and a list of sorts spiraled out in his brain:  “Ginny and Harry seem perfectly alright with it, Lavender’s raising her own, Neville has practically adopted an orphanage, and Teddy is alive and well.”

“Without parents,” she reminded him gravely, and his shoulders sunk.  Hermione smiled softly at him, trying desperately to ease his mind with loving touches to his neck and chest; it wasn’t having enough of an effect on him.  “Draco, it’s not the right time, not for us. I still want more time with you, just you,” she emphasized her want for him, curled her fingers into his shirt.  Even then, Draco was still so stressed, muscles wound and breath coming out in irritated gusts.

Hermione frowned, an aching clawing its way up her spine, digging into her brain.  Her stomach convulsed and her lungs burned.

“And besides that,” she murmured without even thinking, without looking at him.  “I’m scared.”

Draco’s chest stilled under her hands, and his fingers clutched at her cheeks, tugged them up to look at him square in the eye.  Anxiety made silver irises shimmer hectically. “Scared of what?”

The knocking at her skull echoed loud in the stretch of silence.  

She hadn’t told him about the physical violence of her visions, of Neville’s warnings about its toll on her mind and body if they continued.  Hermione didn’t want him to worry, not when the visions had been gone for so long. When she believed they’d go away again, soon enough. 

But until they were gone for good, Hermione couldn’t fathom even thinking of a child.  Even when she stared at Ginny’s growing belly with envy and-

“Nevermind,” Hermione blurted, her head throbbing with the pain of things she kept secret.

Draco refused to let it go, as always.  She should’ve known better. Hermione should’ve told him the truth, but her tongue twisted up, down and backwards to avoid confessing.  But her denial and pathetic attempt at shielding Draco from worry was backfiring in the worst possible way. Because, while Hermione’s fear of pregnancy and Malfoy Manor had worsened due to an alternate world, they’d been birthed in this world.

Her husband may not have found the secret she hid from him, but he understood enough to know part of the truth. 

“You’re scared of raising a Malfoy.”

Draco dared her to refute the fact.  Hermione couldn’t. She bit her lip and tried with all her might to phrase her fears correctly, without revealing too much; Hermione was just so used to confiding everything in Draco.  Yet somehow, in the opening of other worlds, she felt herself closing in on hers. 

Even as the room started to sound like static and the ring on her finger seemed to flicker in and out of existence, Hermione tried to hold onto the fantasy that she was perfectly alright.  Even as Draco’s forlorn face glinted, cruel and foreign and  _ not real,  _ Hermione bit down harshly in denial.

“Draco,” she breathed, desperation obvious in the way she spoke and touched him.  “I love you, but your family, your parents-”

“Loved me,” he immediately and loyally defended them, as Hermione knew he would.  His veins were jolting out from his throat from the passion of it all; it was the same reaction Draco had whenever anyone passed judgment on her.  “In that house. We have our faults, but they love me. I had a good childhood.”

The memories of him hunched over, unable to breathe from panic, letters from home crumbled in hand, were still very fresh in Hermione’s mind.  She remembered how little he ate those last two years of school, how much he worried over his family, how much she’d hated his father - she still hated him enough for the two of them - and, on occasions, his mother too for all the pressure they’d put on their son.  The demands of a Malfoy heir were gruelling, and cruel, and cold. Enough so that it stifled the love of parents, the love of a home.

Her face crumpled, but she tried to smile, to stroke Draco’s face, to dull the harsh effects of honesty.  “I’m sure you think that, but Draco, the truth is it took you years to really understand how your family’s history shaped you.  And you broke the mold so beautifully, but…” 

Draco read the hesitance in his wife’s eyes; knew her too long not to understand.  He could translate her every move and breath into words.

“I’m damaged goods,” he finished for her, and she frowned at the disdain of that statement.  Draco’s stoic expression had been crumbling for a while, and was completely shattered now from miserable suspicions he’d been hoarding for years.   “And you think our children would be the same? How? I’d transform into my father upon walking within those walls?”

In her periphery, Hermione saw their walls morph, mutilated to look like those walls- those walls of Malfoy Manor: woeful, cold, untouchable stone that had long been cleaned of all emotion.  There was the dream of laughter in the distance, but it was so far removed from the cruelty and loneliness that now permeated every inch of those walls. 

The dream of laughter was shredded by the nightmare of a scream.

Hermione gripped at the collar of Draco’s shirt - her husband’s shirt.   _ Real, real _ , she chanted to herself.  Grip painful, and real. 

“Draco, no, of course not.”  She tried her best to alleviate unnecessary worries, softened her voice to comfort them both.  Hermione filled her head with the beautiful image of Draco fast asleep on this very sofa with Teddy curled up to his chest - a small puff of teal waves of hair washing back and forth as Draco snored.  He pretended to detest the little boy, grumbling about what a nosy snot Teddy was, but Hermione always caught him grinning whenever Teddy tripped someone by running between their legs or doodled on important documents.  And he refused to let anyone else complete the task of baking Teddy’s birthday cake.

“You’d be such a good father,” Hermione breathed, unable to hide her longing for the sight of him with their child snug in his arms.  

But then those manor walls were caging that image in, making it horrific.

The scream scratched at her ears.

“It’s just that house,” Hermione’s blood howled in her veins, “It’s not the kind of environment I’d wish upon anyone.”  

She pressed her pounding forehead to his, trying to press out the wrinkles and the doubt, his pain at her rejection.  All the while, Hermione wished she could vanquish her own, unreasonable fears. Only weeks ago, the thought of moving into Malfoy Manor with Draco, starting a new way of life there cleansed of all the diseased pureblood rhetoric had set off butterflies in her stomach; the nervous, but good kind.  But now-

The scream became piercing, pleading.

“I swear, it’s not you.”

Quiet as he was, Hermione knew what was running wild in his head.  Vile thoughts about the Malfoy family and name were still trapped inside that thick skull of his, fed occasionally by whispers around the camp of Lucius Malfoy’s advancing position in Deatheater ranks, by suspicions that Draco had in fact killed Dumbledore and must be a skilled spy to trick Hermione Granger into caring for him.  At times, Hermione caught him locked away in their bedroom, the curse, “coward”, lashing out from his tongue; a whip to punish himself anytime he hesitated just a moment too long on the battlefield, for locking up, for avoiding a fight against an old school friend, and for being petrified for his own life.

And now Draco’s eyes were glazed over and distant, no doubt locked onto the question of why he wanted so badly to live at Malfoy Manor, and she so badly did not.  

He sighed, and suddenly she was being tugged away from home, and onto the sofa.  Her entire body seemed to cramp up and shiver with an eerie emptiness. 

“You left your book in the kitchen.  I’ll go get it.”

It was an excuse to get away from her, to lock himself away somewhere.  To shut down the conversation before something disastrous was said- though, Hermione feared she’d already said it.  A grotesque sense of terror racked at her skin, and her head throbbed angrily. 

_ Malfoy, no! _

“Draco, no,” Hermione pleaded.  Distraught, her hand wildly flew out to grab Draco’s as he stood and started to walk away.  But he slipped out of reach.

The walls were melting again.

“Draco, please I don’t want to end it like that-”  With his back turned, it was easier for Hermione’s imagination to run self-destructively.  His casual sweater glitched into a polished suit. She grasped at the air, and it felt like she was squeezing down on her own lungs.

“Draco-”

The horrific vision of another life slammed down on her with aggressive force, and she saw rather than ordered her hands brace against the stone ground just before her nose smacked into the cold surface.  Her lungs were heaving, winded from some kind of running. Her feet were stinging, and her whole body was screeching in agony. There was that scream again, somewhere ahead of her, and at once it sounded too familiar- the scream of a friend, of Ginny.  

She sprang up and bolted forward, only to slam into something invisible and solid.  She fell backwards, and her head cried out when it hit that damn floor. Someone was laughing just behind her, and when Hermione flinched her eyes back open, everything she believed to be reality dissolved into dream.  

Had Draco really spent his entire first year trying every method possible to become her friend?  Had he really demanded she eat lunch with him because all other company was dull? Had his owl really knocked on her window every week during the summer with a book for her to read?  Had he really gotten detention for fighting a fellow Slytherin who’d called her a mudblood? Had his “I like you” really evolved into “I love you” over the years? Had she really fallen in love with him, and he with her?  Had they really been married two years now?

Because the way Draco Malfoy laughed at her then did not, could not coexist with those memories.  They bled out, vulnerable, and pooled around her and Malfoy’s feet.

_“Please,”_ she heard herself beg, absolutely broken yet breaking more and more every time she heard Ginny scream out in the distance.  Malfoy’s eyes flashed down at her, powerful glaciers that threatened to crush her. _“Stop playing games! Tell me what you want, and let her go!  LET HER GO!”_

The face of Draco’s father grinned down at her, and though he did not lay a finger on her, Hermione felt herself be squeezed in the palm of his hand.  The menacing walls of Malfoy Manor seemed to stretch infinitely upwards and onwards, squeezing inward, twisting in a labyrinth she couldn’t escape.

_“Darling, I’ve already told you,”_ he leered and slithered down to whisper in her ear. 

_ “No one else will do as my partner.” _

The scream that came then was all her own.

There were hands on her, grabbing her arms and lifting her up.  Someone was calling her name, and she tasted blood on her tongue.  She was coughing and screaming, nails scratching at her own skull, her mind spinning the reel: not real, not real, not real; trying to convince herself-

“Hermione!” 

She tore her eyes from the darkness and was overwhelmed by silver.  Her blood was drunk with rage, her head pounding fear.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Hermione yelled, hostile.  Immediately, hands flew away, letting her breathe.  Instantly, Hermione realized the silver that washed over her was kind and bright, not darkened by inhumanity.  

Her husband.

Draco knelt in front of her, where she had crumpled over on the sofa, expression teetering off the cliff of anguish.  The only thing that kept him from falling off into complete self hatred was worry for her. Guilt and shame crashed against her ribs.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione blurted frantically, pained and in danger of crying like a complete fool.  Seeing she was back to herself, it took Draco less than a second to wrap his arms around her, comforting her and absolutely muffling her apologies.  She ranted on, anyway. “Oh, god, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.”

Draco’s fingers ran through her hair, palms pushing out the noise in her head, pressing in tranquility.  His lips rained down on her ear and temple, kissing her plenty, devoutly. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it,” he mumbled into her curls.  She could hear his head spinning, feel his arms hold her tighter. “Merlin, how the hell am I so stupid? Forgive me, I’m a fool. Of course you don’t want to live there.  We won’t. Tossed. Over. I want nothing to do with that place.”

He knew without her telling him.  There was no way Draco could fathom the scene still tearing at her mind, but he knew well enough the look of pure hatred and fear.  He knew who’d conjured it, and where. He just knew.

Hermione’s muscles sighed into Draco’s hands as he lifted her, returned her home.  She sat on his lap with knees drawn in, eyes focused on the gentle rise and fall of Draco’s collarbone, nerves tuned into the soothing stroking of his fingers up and down her spine.

Her thoughts were still swirling in dark matter - a galaxy of turmoil.

Draco’s thumb skimmed over the corner of her lips, and Hermione jolted.  “You’re bleeding,” Draco noted, worry ruining his features. “When did that start happening?”

“Oh,” Hermione stalled, and wiped at her mouth.  An iron taste lingered on her teeth. “That’s new,” she mumbled a lie.  Draco called her out on it with a disquieted frown. “I’ll get it checked out.”

He was ready to give a speech, one she’d heard before.  “Hermione-”

“It’s a small price to pay, compared to what she’s going through,” she snapped, exhaustion and residue anger in her veins.  She didn’t know it, but she was shaking from it all. “It’s horrible, Draco. It’s wretched, and hopeless.” She was losing her grip on reality again, and those cruel hands were squeezing her, dragging her into a black hole.  “I’m helpless, pathetically helpless-”

“Hey,” Draco shook her softly, forced her to look at him.  Hermione focused on those starlit eyes, let their gravity pull her in.  Her body stilled its quivering. “Hey, you’re here. With me, got it? We’re here, Hermione.  You’re not her. I’m not him. We’re not them.”

It was easy to see, in that moment, he was not the Malfoy of her nightmares.  His eyes were fierce, but fiercely loving and shining with the light of a kind universe.  His arms secured safety, not a prison. His lips didn’t have the capacity to be sinister; they only ever had the will to be sincere.   He was her Draco, her husband, her reality.

But reality was a trial she found herself losing more, and more.

“We could be,” she barely dared to whisper, and feared she’d granted that possibility power by giving it voice.  

What was that saying about self-fulfilled prophecies?

Concern crossed Draco’s face before it hardened resolutely.  His hands steadied her, anchored her to him. To this one and only reality.  The other one be damned. “No, we couldn’t. We’re us, and we’re here, and we’re together.  Understand? That’s our fate.”

For a moment, Hermione allowed Draco to distract her from her worries with the touch of his hands framing her face.  Like this, she couldn’t imagine ever running from his embrace, from the feel of stardust tickling her cheeks, the meteor shower raining down in her heart and streaming through her veins.  To love him was to experience the subliminal vastness of space, swelling maddeningly in her chest. It expanded her mind to endless worlds.

And that was a blissful curse.  

“Fate,” she murmured distastefully.  Unconsciously, Hermione began twisting at her wedding ring again.  “I used to roll my eyes at that word, but not after everything I’ve seen.  There’s been such a pattern, an equilibrium between universes - a give and a take.  When I watched her Harry die-”

She was choking on the memory.  Draco’s lips kissed air back into her.  

“Draco, what if… What if we have it all wrong?”  

“What do you mean?”  He asked hesitantly, disconcerted by the wild glint of destruction in Hermione’s eyes.

“What if our fates aren’t complimentary, but mirrored?  You’ve said before that I don’t need to worry about her, that she’ll be fine because I’m fine.  That she and… him will find their way to one another, but what if it’s the complete opposite. What if we-”

Draco’s hands stiffened at either side of her face and a look of astonishment and disgust raged over his features.  “You really think I could-?”

“No!” Hermione rushed, gripping his hands and splattering them with frantic kisses.  “Damn it, no, never! But, we’ve been fighting, and now about this damn house and you say it’s over but you’ll resent me for it, I know it… What if this is it?  What if we’re fated to drift apart and we just don’t know it?”

“Hold on, no.  Stop that.” Draco shook his head, kissed her and interlocked their hands - his fingers filling the space between her knuckles so perfectly, his lips an unequaled companion for hers.  Everything about him was trying to prove her fears wrong. 

“I told you,” he asserted vehemently, each word seared onto her lips.  “The house situation is done with. I don’t care where we live. It’s just a house.  You’re my home. I will need and want you every day of my wretched life, and I refuse to be without you.  Got that?”

Hermione groaned, very aware of how every time he breathed in, another worry of hers was exhaled out.  “But-”

“No,” Draco grit out and his forehead knocked against hers, trying to knock sense into her.  His smile flashed quick, a blinding shoot star that impaired her vision and made sense impossible.  “You and that head of yours, Hermione. It’s positively overwhelming.”

He was one to talk.

Hermione sighed, and pressed her forehead harder into his, focusing on the real, real, real force of nature he was.  She focused on the real, real, real love of his that pulsated out of him on various spectrums, coloring her life in shades she couldn’t fathom being without.  She couldn’t fathom being without him; it’s what made every vision so excruciating. She was sure that was the pain that left blood in her mouth and screams in her head.  The idea that fate could be so cruel-

“You are my best friend,” Draco’s voice reached out to her.  His voice had a way of reaching the places his hands could not - of reshaping and easing her mind, of exposing and shielding her heart.  “I love you. I am in love with you, and have been falling in love with you every day, since I met you eleven years ago. I haven’t stopped, and never will stop.  I will tear apart anyone or anything that tries to take you away from me. You know damn well I will do anything to keep you in my life, because I sure as fucking hell know how lucky I am to have you.  I’m reminded of that everytime you - When you talk of this world out there where we’re not - I can’t even imagine living without you, I love you so much. Do you understand me? I love you so damn much.  So don’t you dare doubt how permanent and real that is. This is real. This is us, and I am yours. Now, and always. Fate be fucking damned. Got it?”

Hermione nodded, not trusting her voice and her vision completely screwed.  If the walls were melting again, if hell were opening up in front of her, all she’d be able to see was Draco.  He pulled her into an embrace that crushed her, palpable and real. She grabbed at him, hugging him just as fiercely, her love just as tangible and permanent as his.  For all the years that were, and would be, must be: she loved him.

Fate be fucking damned, indeed.


End file.
